


Parasite Knight

by VelkynKarma



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blood, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Gen, Injury, Language, Mentions of PTSD, PTSD, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Starvation, but also contains elements of all of those things?, not exactly a brainwashing fic, not exactly a mind control fic, not exactly a sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 86,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9169519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelkynKarma/pseuds/VelkynKarma
Summary: “You may refuse all you like, Champion, but I have found the one thing in the universe that can be absolutely counted on is that everything that exists desires to survive. Even you. Perhaps especially you.”Something’s not right with Shiro, but it may go far deeper than anybody anticipated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! The seed of this fic started as a discarded theme idea for Routine Maintenance, but it grew into sooooo much more than that. It’s also heavily inspired by a few interesting details we see in the show that I don’t think I’ve seen anyone comment on. And also a lot of Bosstoaster’s works. Like, a lot of them. Like, basically blame BT for 50% of this okay. 
> 
> This fic is gonna be 100% done before Season 2 drops, so expect daily or every-other-day updates. You lucky ducks, you.

* * *

 

"Sleep,  
Those little slices of Death.  
How I loathe them."  
~Edgar Allen Poe

* * *

  
It starts with the fatigue.  
  
If he’s being honest with himself, Shiro has to admit that’s the reason he doesn’t even notice anything is wrong at first. These days he’s no stranger to exhaustion. He hasn’t been since the Kerberos mission. Rest is hardly for the weak, but it is a luxury he can’t really afford these days, before as a gladiator slave and now as a defender of the universe. Between constant battles, tense high-stress situations, and difficulties sleeping when he _does_ get a few spare hours, Shiro doesn’t think he’s been fully rested in well over a year.  
  
Which is fine, really. He’s long since learned to function on limited to no hours of rest, and he’s long since taught himself how to keep functioning and fighting even when he’s tired. He can’t afford to fail—not with the universe resting on his shoulders, not with the rest of the paladins looking to him for leadership and guidance, not when the Alteans and the Black Lion have handpicked him as a commanding officer. He _won’t_ fail, not when he’s needed.  
  
So he pushes through the difficult fights. He does whatever he can to protect those under his command, and those innocent civilians from dozens of planets that trust him to help save them. The team is getting more used to working together and entering combat, learning to work with each other to achieve their mission goals. Shiro is learning too—he’s getting much better at charging up his Galra arm in combat and learning its limits. He’s able to light it up much faster, push more power to it for more devastating attacks against opponents, use it for more prolonged periods of time. Every strike he makes with against a sentry or Galra equipment is spitting in the face of Zarkon and Haggar, and he revels in the ability to tear down their defenses with their own weapon.  
  
If he’s a little tired after the fights, well, that’s to be expected. Everyone is tired after major fights. They’re only five combatants after all—seven at most if the Alteans also assist—trying to do the work of an entire army. It’s going to be exhausting. There’s no use complaining about it, so he doesn’t.  
  
So the fatigue doesn’t stand out to him by itself. But after numerous battles and several freed planets he starts to notice other things. Like how, in the heat of battle, his prosthetic starts to take just a _little_ bit longer to light up each and every time he calls on it. The way it takes just a fraction more concentration than before, the way it takes just a tiny bit more willpower and focus to keep it going, and more still to maintain his energized fist once it is activated. The way it seems to weigh on him a little more every time he does, the way he can feel that exhaustion creeping up on him in mid battle every time he goes particularly wild in combat with his Galra arm.  
  
It’s only in little fractions at first. But the more battles he finds himself in, the more that time increases, and the more he has to break his concentration from the fights themselves to activate and use his prosthetic. It’s not safe—he learns that very quickly when a sentry nearly beheads him, when he’s not focusing on where his opponents are because he’s focusing on his arm. Shiro finds it a little worrisome.  
  
Worrisome, but not _alarming,_ exactly. The Galra prosthetic is an amazing piece of technology, but it is technology, and it has to have limits somewhere. The paladins of Voltron have been very active since reuniting after the battle at Zarkon’s ship, harrying supply lines, freeing planets, and gathering allies. They’ve all been running themselves ragged trying to get as much done as possible in so little time, and Shiro is no exception. He wonders if he’s been overclocking the arm too much, activating it and charging it up as often as he has been recently. He has no idea how this thing works, but he knows Earth computers can get fried from sudden power surges, and they definitely don’t take well to being used like battering rams and bludgeons. He wonders if the arm is struggling to keep up with how much he’s putting it through recently. It’s definitely designed as a weapon—there’s absolutely no question about that—but even weapons need to be used carefully and responsibly or they break.  
  
When he thinks about it, it’s foolish of him to have grown to rely so heavily on the arm to begin with. He’s always hated it, but it’s too useful a tool to disregard completely, even assuming he could. It has too many convenient combat and espionage uses, and he’s found himself relying on it more and more, even when regular combat will suffice. He _has_ to remember he doesn’t know or understand the full extent of what this thing is capable of, and it could be very dangerous, for himself or his allies, if he gets careless. The Galra aren’t known for their kindness, and this prosthetic is not a gift—he knows that instinctively even without having the memories to corroborate it.  
  
Shiro resolves to be a little more sparing in his use of the prosthetic, especially in combat. He’s not sure why it’s stopped responding as well, but easing off of pushing it to its limits might help, especially in regards to activating it. And forcing himself to rely on it less often is definitely something he needs to put into practice sooner rather than later, before it ends up getting him or somebody he cares about hurt. Better safe than sorry.  
  
It’s a more difficult resolution to hold to than Shiro would like. Difficult combat situations come up often, and Shiro will absolutely use whatever weapons he has at his disposal to protect his team, even at the cost of some of his concentration, even if it leaves him more tired than he’d like at the end of the day. And its espionage and interface abilities are still too crucial to their mission to cut off completely.  
  
But he starts letting Keith or Pidge take the lead cutting into ships or difficult places with their bayards when possible. He trains a little harder with the gladiator in one-on-one scenarios to improve his left side and reduce his reliance on his right arm. He starts using his left hand more for everyday things, like eating, typing, and using tools, just to try and reduce a little more wear and tear on the prosthetic. He alters some of his combat strategies so that if he does need to light up the arm, at least he finds a safe place to do it first so he can concentrate. And he’s very careful to cut down any prolonged use of the prosthetic’s ability, restraining himself to only calculated hits and final shots at just the right moments.  
  
It’s not perfect, and it’s a bit of a setback. But it’s a manageable one. He’s a little more tired, but that’s hardly new; it’s just another thing to overcome. The adjustments seem to help, and eventually that tiredness fades into the background like it always does, and the new routines become normal.  
  
He moves on, and doesn’t think about it again for a while.  


* * *

  
Shiro doesn’t think the others really notice, at least not at first.  
  
That is to say, all of the paladins, and even Allura and Coran, notice that he’s _tired_ a lot. That’s nothing new, either, and a few of the more vocal members of Team Voltron will even speak up or chastise him on how often he rests.  
  
But he’s pretty sure they assume it’s because he just doesn’t sleep all that often. Shiro will get regular lectures about the importance of a good six to eight hours of sleep a night, or about the importance of not overworking oneself. They always watch him like a hawk whenever he gets injured to be sure he doesn’t push himself too hard.  
  
And he appreciates that they care. Really, he does. It’s just that he’s pretty sure none of their suggestions will actually do anything for this particular problem. And he doesn’t feel like worrying them further, not when every single one of them already has so much on their shoulders, so he just doesn’t say anything at all.  
  
And for a while, they don’t seem to pick up on it. Especially when Shiro is pretty sure he’s good at dealing on exactly no rest in tense situations, and half the time he’s good at burying any of his own discomfort and presenting a strong, confident mask for the rest of them.  
  
But none of them are stupid, and they do start to notice little things eventually. None of them miss the way he’s been using his arm less and less, both in training and in real combat situations. During a stealth mission, Pidge gives him a strange look when Shiro orders her to take the extra five minutes to hack into the database with his arm used only as an interface, rather than the full power source for the console. He disarms sentries or uses the environment to his advantage or kicks them out windows or airlocks, and Keith frowns, and Lance questions why he doesn’t just “glow up and smash their heads in.” He asks Hunk to cover him with his laser cannon while he powers up and welds a door shut behind them to prevent pursuit, and doesn’t miss the concerned frown Hunk gives him when activating the arm takes almost as long as sealing the door.  
  
It doesn’t help that it’s starting to get a little worse, too. Shiro had felt a _little_ more tired after battles before, but nothing he wasn’t capable of managing. Now, he finds himself feeling more and more fatigued after major fights. And he doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that he feels the worst when he’s forced to use his prosthetic more heavily than usual, whenever he repeatedly lights it up or uses its abilities significantly. It means he tries to compensate more and use it even less, but that in turn means the rest of the paladins take even more notice.  
  
It becomes something that can’t be ignored anymore three months after they were reunited. They’ve just finished liberating their twentieth planet, Koromok, which gratefully joins the Voltron Alliance. Twenty feels like a paltry number compared to the tens of thousands of still-enslaved planets, but it’s an impressive feat for a team of five inexperienced pilots and one support ship, and Lance insists on celebrating.  
  
“We’ve all got to be there. Really appreciate all the great stuff we’ve done so far,” Lance says brightly. “Can’t let the job get us down. Right? Shiro?”  
  
Shiro’s heart isn’t exactly set on a party at the moment. The battle today had been rough at the end, and even if the decisive blow had been finished with Voltron, it had required a lot of foot work to free prisoners and sabotage Galra equipment. He’d been forced to go all out in combat, his right arm hurts, his whole body feels worn down, and he wants nothing more than quiet and a chance to just _sit_ for a bit.  
  
But Lance is watching him so eagerly, and the others are staring at him with looks that seem both begging and hopeful, and Shiro finds he can’t deny them. Lance isn’t wrong—it’s so easy to get bogged down with the weight of the mission that they need any chance they can get to emphasize their successes.  
  
“Right,” Shiro agrees. “Why don’t you guys get all set up?” Their eyes light up, and all of them scurry off to prepare, chatting amongst themselves about what exactly is needed. Even Keith looks interested, and doesn’t keep himself distant from the rest of the group, which is a sure sign that this is needed.  
  
Shiro sighs, glances at Allura, and adds, “This isn’t going to be a problem, right?”  
  
She and Coran both stare at Shiro intently, and for a moment Shiro is sure that she’s not too happy about them taking any type of break, even for one night. Shiro has a feeling that Allura feels the weight of the mission more strongly than anyone—partly from the guilt of being absent for ten millennia, if he has to guess. She can be very insistent on constantly staying active, as a result.  
  
But after a moment she says, “This is acceptable. I agree with Lance. While there are still a vast number of battles ahead of us, it is important to remember our victories, too. _All_ of us can use such a reminder.”  
  
The way she emphasizes it, Shiro has a funny feeling she’s directing that last line at him specifically. Especially the way she and Coran are still staring at him. He’d be a fool to think _they_ haven’t noticed his recent difficulties either, but he does his best to ignore it.  
  
The party is a smaller, personal affair, with just the Castle residents—all of them had learned their lesson after Sendak’s attack during the Arusian farewell party. Even so, it’s impressive. Hunk outdoes himself creating a delicious-looking spread from Koromok food supplies, Pidge has managed to produce decent music from _somewhere,_ and all of them, even the mice, are in an altogether better mood as they gather for what is supposed to be a night of victorious celebration.  
  
Shiro remembers none of it, other than sitting down at one of the tables for a moment. When he opens his eyes next he finds he’s stretched out on one of the lounge couches, with a couple blankets tossed over him, and it’s the next morning.  
  
He wishes he could attribute it to a bad blackout hangover, but he knows better than that. Nothing at the little celebration had been alcoholic, and he’s never been a blackout drunk to begin with. The concerned looks the paladins give him, when he finds them during breakfast, only confirm it.  
  
“You fell asleep at the table,” Hunk tells him, as he sets a warm drink and something hot to eat down on front of Shiro and pushes it at him insistently. “Allura carried you out to the lounge to let you sleep more comfortably. You really gotta try to get more rest, Shiro. Please? You had us worried.” The others nod in agreement, and stare at him with varying expressions of concern and uneasiness over their own breakfasts.  
  
Shiro’s sorry he scared them, and likely ruined the otherwise good mood of the little victory celebration. He’s not the type to fall asleep in front of others, or appear in any way vulnerable if he can help it, and it had probably alarmed them.  
  
He doesn’t blame them. He’s just alarmed himself, too. He knows he has more control than that—he’d been exhausted, but he shouldn’t have passed out after a single fight. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, or being carried to the couch. And that’s what _really_ scares him—that he’d been so dead to the world and lacked so much awareness that he could be manipulated so easily.  
  
Suddenly, this newfound exhaustion doesn’t feel quite so manageable as before.  


* * *

 

  
Things seem to start spiraling from there.  
  
Shiro’s used to feeling tired on a day to day basis, but he finds himself feeling progressively more and more so as the days go on. At first, he only _really_ feels it more than usual after a particularly active battle, when he pushes his prosthetic to its limits and uses it far more than he knows he should. But after another few weeks, he finds himself feeling just as exhausted even when he deliberately cuts down on how often he uses his grafted weapon, or eliminates its use in combat completely.  
  
Soon, he feels a continual haze of exhaustion even on days when they _haven’t_ been in a fight, when the Castle of Lions is traveling to its next destination or when they’re in hiding while letting one or more of the paladins to recover. And that’s when Shiro starts to get the feeling that something is a little more off than he first thought.  
  
He’s not sure _why_ exactly he’s suddenly always feeling so tired, even when they haven’t done anything strenuous. But he hasn’t forgotten the way he fell asleep at that little victory celebration weeks ago—and it’s not the first time it’s happened. A few more times since then, Shiro has found himself starting awake on couches or chairs around the Castle, where he presumably fell asleep the moment he stopped moving. Sometimes he’ll wake with a blanket tossed over him or a pillow wedged under his head, and he knows someone else caught him while passed out, which is just as frustrating as the actual act of passing out itself.  
  
He knows the others are getting worried about him. He’s just not sure what he can do about it.  
  
The whole thing feels a little surreal, and Shiro doesn’t have much of an explanation for it. He’s used to living tired, and he’s gotten into the habit of living on only four or five hours of sleep a night. But he doubts his constant exhaustion and newfound narcolepsy are the result of that, or he’s sure it would have started happening a while back. And while they have all been working hard and pushing themselves to save as many planets as they can, he doubts they’ve pushed themselves to such extremes to warrant _this._ Especially when Shiro’s been more careful about how he handles himself in combat for weeks now.  
  
Still, he does what he can to combat it. He actually takes the others’ advice and tries to get a little more rest when he can, forcing himself to lay down earlier and try to sleep a little longer. It’s not exactly _easy_ —even not taking his often dark and disturbing dreams into account, he’s always been a restless and light sleeper, and it’s not easy to do a solid six to eight hours with no interruption. But he tries. He can’t afford to let this put the others in danger, after all, and if things keep going as they are at some point he’s going to pass out in combat when somebody _really_ needs him. That would be unacceptable.  
  
But he finds that sleep, even when he enforces it in his schedule, isn’t really _restful_. He spends more and more time asleep, or tries fitting in naps in between training sessions when he can, but it doesn’t feel like it _does_ anything. For that matter, when he thinks about it, even the moments he falls asleep against his will don’t really feel like they help. He wakes disoriented and feeling uncomfortable more than anything else, and more often than not he feels more tired than when he first laid down.  
  
It’s like it’s beyond normal fatigue, beyond any kind of exhaustion he’s ever dealt with before. He has no real explanation for it, but it does disturb him a little.  
  
And Shiro starts noticing _other_ things too, things he’s not really sure how to explain or put to words. As the weeks pass he starts feeling…not _hungry_ , exactly, and not _thirsty,_ because Hunk and Coran between them never let their teammates want for healthy food or drink. His stomach never rumbles and he never has that dried out feeling like he’s desperate for water. He knows he’s getting the nutrients his body needs, because Hunk is great at keeping their meals balanced and Coran is very careful about checking on human dietary needs after the way the paladin lunch was so thoroughly rejected.  
  
But he feels…he feels hungry. He doesn’t know any other way to explain it. He’s not starving for food, but he feels hungry in another sense, and he can never quite fulfill it. He doesn’t know how. He’s never felt anything like this before back on Earth, and if he did with the Galra he certainly can’t remember. And the more days pass, the hungrier he feels.  
  
Another week passes, and in addition to that not-quite-hunger, Shiro starts feeling…well, he’s not entirely sure how to explain it, but _emptier_ is the closest word he can think of. He’s not sure if it’s an extension of that unfilled not-hunger or something new. It’s becoming harder to pick apart the symptoms, and it’s much harder to focus on them, anyway.  
  
But he doesn’t notice the other things until he starts noticing the reactions of the others around him.  
  
Keith asks him why he didn’t show up for their one-on-one sparring matches, looking confused and concerned. Shiro tells him he forgot, that there had been a lot on his mind, but the lie feels flat on his tongue. In truth, he had remembered, but hadn’t had the energy or the motivation to make his way to the training room. He’s vaguely aware that this isn’t like him and it’s definitely not good for Keith—who needs some kind of structure and support for his role in the team—but it doesn’t bother him as much it maybe should.  
  
Keith’s hurt look doesn’t hurt as much as it should, either.  
  
Their usual Voltron-forming practice is interrupted by some deep-space travel, and Lance, grinning hopefully, asks if this means training is cancelled. Allura and Coran argue that they _must_ continue their training in some other form, and ask Shiro which kind of training session they will replace it with. Shiro is aware that this is a fairly simple question, but it takes him far longer than it should for him to register it and come up with an appropriate answer. He stares at them blankly while he tries to make a choice, and almost misses the way Lance’s grin slides slowly into a frown. It’s hard to tell, but Shiro doesn’t think it’s from disappointment at getting assigned new work to do that day after all.  
  
Pidge and Hunk come to him together, rambling enthusiastically about some technological improvements they think they can make to the Lions and to their equipment that might help better serve in the fight. They want his opinion as the leader and overall tactician which of the project ideas they should focus on, and if he has any other ideas they think they can improve on. Their excitement is normally so warm it’s overwhelming, and normally Shiro finds himself telling them to calm down and explain it all in layman’s terms. This time he can barely bring himself to focus on what they say at all, and just tells them to do whatever they think is best. He doesn’t even try to volunteer any of his own ideas—he doesn’t have any, and it’ll take too much thinking to make some. Somehow this answer isn’t acceptable. The enthusiasm drains from both of them—something Shiro thinks he should probably feel bad about for causing but can’t quite bring himself to actually do. Hunk actually asks if Shiro is feeling okay.  
  
He isn’t, really, and that’s the first indicator that maybe something is more _off_ than Shiro realizes.  
  
He tells them he’s just tired, and they leave him to rest. Almost immediately he just wants to ignore the entire situation and forget it happened, but something at the back of his mind insists that no, something about this is _important._ He should try to hold onto this, as much as he doesn’t want to bother.  
  
And it really hits him, two days later, about exactly what’s happening. He watches all of the paladins clowning around and arguing about the best ice cream flavors, to the confusion of Allura and Coran, who are demanding explanations for this ‘ice cream.’ The atmosphere is relaxed and amused, not unlike the time all of them argued over laser sounds, and it _should_ feel fun and entertaining. But Shiro just feels…nothing, really. He can’t dredge up any enthusiasm or goofiness or even the exasperated need to tell them to quiet down and behave themselves. He has no desire to join in. He just feels listless. Empty. _Hungry._  
  
Something is _very wrong._ He knows this for sure now, and yet at the same time, it’s like he can’t even bring himself to care.  
  
But looking back, now that he’s more self-aware, he realizes he’s had this problem for _days_. It’s hard to spot unless he’s interacting with one of the others and can see how differently he’s acting. If left to his own devices he doesn’t notice because he can’t bring himself to bother. But now he’s starting to realize how drained he feels. How empty. He feels gray, washed out, like only a part of him is really there. And it’s making it more and more difficult to interact with his friends, or perform his duties as the black paladin.  
  
Even piloting the Black Lion is far more difficult than before. What once used to come so naturally to him is now a struggle. He flies more out of muscle memory than the inter-connection between human mind and Lion presence. Listening to her guiding imagery and thoughts is so difficult, like she’s trying to yell the answers at him from the other side of the Castle of Lions. She feels so _distant_ , and trying even the basics of flying takes more willpower than he feels he has some days. Trying to see through her eyes is almost impossible now.  
  
That _does_ scare him, and is the one thing that manages to crack his otherwise gray indifference. He’s not sure _why_ , but losing his connection with his Lion is definitely a sure sign that _something_ is wrong.  
  
The worst by _far_ is forming Voltron. If connecting with his own Lion is difficult, maintaining the bond needed to connect to not just her, but four other individuals and their Lions, is grueling and exhausting. It’s a little scary, that something that used to give him so much exhilaration is now such a struggle.  Every time Voltron strikes a decisive blow against the Galra, Shiro can feel the others’ victory, but he can’t feel it himself—just exhaustion.  
  
All of it is so tiring to maintain, and there is a part of Shiro that is rapidly growing that doesn’t want to bother anymore. It’s too exhausting to keep pushing forward when _whatever_ is happening is getting worse, and he’s so empty and _hungry_ , and he’s not even sure why he should care to begin with. Why does any of this matter to him? It’s nothing he asked for. Leading? Making all these calls? Forming Voltron? It’s not the job for him. He’s terrible at it. Undeserving of that role. He’s tired. He’s starving. He wants to be done.  
  
But another piece of him—an insistent voice that keeps getting a little softer every day, but hasn’t given up yet—fights that growing indifference and fatigue. _You’re the leader. You need to keep going for the universe, for Earth, for the paladins, for Allura and Coran. You can’t be the weak link here. Keep fighting. Don’t. Stop. Fighting._  
  
So he doesn’t. Exhausting as it is, drained and unworthy as he feels, he hangs onto that little voice and keeps fighting. He forces all the willpower he has left into concentrating on their battles, making the calls that are needed, and on forming Voltron and masking his thoughts and feelings—or lack thereof—from the others. He forces some degree of interaction outside battle, trying to maintain some semblance of what passes for ‘normal’ for them all these days. Most of all, he stresses to himself over and over the need to just hang on and keep going. If he maintains this charade long enough maybe he can make it real. Don’t stop fighting. Keep going.  
  
And he does. For a little while longer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slides this in at the end of the night like a boss*

* * *

 

"There is something at work in my soul which I do not understand."  
~ _Frankenstein_ , Mary Shelley

* * *

  
  
It comes to a head a week later, in the middle of a battle.   
  
In retrospect, Shiro really should have known better than to think he could fake his way through something as massive as being a paladin of Voltron. But he hasn’t been thinking clearly for weeks, now, so he supposes he can be excused for that. Assuming it doesn’t cost anyone their lives.  
  
It almost does. He’s less inclined to excuse himself for that.  
  
They’ve been fighting for hours on a planet of endless rolling fields and hills. The Galra are here in force, harvesting some kind of precious oils that are apparently useful as druid reagents, as far as anyone can tell. The people that live on the planet rely heavily on careful symbiotic harvesting of their sacred oils, are desperate for aid and generally peaceful, and the Galra are merciless with them. The paladins are doing everything they can to protect the innocent civilians and recover the materials so holy to them and intrinsic to their culture and religion.  
  
The battle started in the air, but has since swapped to being on foot. The people here live in interconnected underground burrows, like massive warren-cities, and the Lions are too big to traverse them and so heavy they threaten to collapse them if they set down too close. The Galra are on the retreat, determined to escape with the materials so important to their precious druids, but it’s difficult to root them out in the maze of burrows.   
  
The paladins have been searching and fighting for hours, and Shiro, at least, feels like he’s running on empty. He’s exhausted, his concentration keeps waning, and each continued step is a struggle. He’s only lit up his arm three times in the entire day, for final strikes to bring down several key sentries, but each use left him winded and ragged. He’s not sure he could do it again. And if he’s honest with himself, he can’t even blame the arm for his condition; he was struggling to keep moving even before he ever attempted to use the prosthetic in battle.   
  
In the end, the paladins manage to track down and corner the Galra officer, Kartek, right on the edge of one of the warren-towns. He’s wreaking havoc on several of the burrow-huts, and the paladins rush to engage and put his rampaging to a halt, when Pidge suddenly cries out.  
  
“There! Over there! He’s got guys running with the last of those reagents!”   
  
It’s true—in the distance, across the underground town, Shiro can see a cluster of sentries circled around a single lower-ranking Galra officer, who’s got something cradled carefully in his arms. Something about seeing any Galra retreating is strange—as a people they are not ones to withdraw from a fight—but anything for their precious druids will inevitably take precedence.   
  
“This guy’s just a distraction,” Keith yells angrily. “We can’t let them get away with that stuff!”  
  
“We can’t let Kartek destroy these peoples’ homes either!” Lance argues back hotly. “Even if it is supposed to be a distraction they’re still gonna die if we don’t do something!”  
  
“We can’t have _stronger druids_ either!” Pidge snaps. “That oil’s supposed to make their creepy magic even more powerful!”  
  
“Shiro? What do we do?” Hunk asks, voice anxious.  
  
They turn to face him, determinedly awaiting his orders, bayards at the ready to take action the moment they know what action to take. Shiro glances around at all of them, at Kartek, at the Galra officer retreating in the distance. He considers the choices, and…  
  
And he doesn’t know.   
  
“Shiro?” This time it’s Lance, voice a little more anxious than before. “What do we do?”  
  
Kartek is turning now, teeth bared in a snarl as he brings his massive laser cannon around in their general direction, eyes fixated on the paladins. In the distance, the other Galra officer is getting close to one of the exit tunnels. There’s no time left—a decision needs to be made _now_ , and Shiro has to be the one to make it.  
  
He can’t.   
  
It’s not like he doesn’t want to. He’s _trying,_ trying to force his mind into action, but he _can’t._ He can’t figure out how to weigh the choices, can’t figure out how to compare them to make the best call. He can’t even figure out _how_ he’s supposed to make the call. He knows it’s something he’s done before, he knows it’s something he’s even done _today_ , and he knows it’s something that is supposed to come naturally to him. But his mind feels blank and he just…he can’t _do_ it.   
  
“Shiro? _Shiro?_ ”   
  
_Choose!_ his mind screams at him in a panic. _Choose, choose, choose, now! Somebody’s going to die if you don’t!_   
  
But he can’t even figure out how to just pick one randomly just for the sake of making any decision at all. He can’t wrap his head around _how._ It’s like the ability to do something as simple as choose between one thing and another at all has been completely taken away from him. He can feel the urgency to make a choice, the _need_ , can see Kartek leveling the laser cannon at them, can see the other officer getting too close to escaping forever, can see the civilians and his own paladins in danger. He can see _all of it_ , but even knowing the importance, he just…  
  
He _can’t_. He doesn’t know how.  
  
“Shiro—“  
  
“Look out, he’s firing!”  
  
There’s a blur of black, white, and yellow in front of Shiro, and he gets the impression of a flash of yellow light as Hunk drops his bayard. His energy shield materializes just in time for Hunk to take the full force of the cannon’s hit, but the force of the blow sends Hunk skidding backwards into Shiro, who stumbles backwards himself. He hears the shattering sound of the energy shield breaking completely.   
  
Shiro still feels blank, frozen, unable to make a choice no matter how much he berates his mind for it. But he’s suddenly aware of movement all around him, and the noise of battle as bayards activate and the paladins lunge into battle.   
  
“Hunk, back me up on this guy—if you can handle the cannon I can engage him up close.”  
  
“Can do Keith, but Shiro—“  
  
“I’ve got Shiro, don’t worry. Lance, can you snipe the runners?”  
  
“On it!”   
  
Shiro watches in frozen bewilderment as his team bursts into action around him, and starts a moment later when something touches his left wrist. A moment later he realizes it’s Pidge, who stares up at him worriedly as she plants herself firmly between Shiro and the battle ahead. “Shiro? You here with us?” she asks. Her voice is urgent, but Shiro can also recognize an attempt to sound as calm and controlled as possible.   
  
He blinks down at her. It’s a weird question, and questions feel so… _difficult_ to answer at the moment, because it’s so hard for him to _think_ , and his head feels so cloudy when he’s so tired. But it’s not impossible, not like making a choice. It’s just an answer. That’s all she needs. He can do that, he thinks.  
  
So after a moment, he manages, “I…what? Yes? I don’t…where else would I be?”  
  
She frowns a little at that answer, looking confused. A second later a shower of dirt cascades over them as one of Kartek’s stray laser cannon blasts smashes into the earthen wall nearby. She curses, grabbing Shiro’s wrist. “C’mon, this place isn’t safe.”   
  
Of course it isn’t. They’re in a battle, why would it be safe? But he’s too confused to argue—he’s not even sure exactly what just happened, why couldn’t he…why is he so…he doesn’t know. Can’t even finish his own thoughts. So he lets her lead him to a side-tunnel not too far away, where she pushes him down to sit on a stray boulder, back against the wall. It’s a testament to how much this battle has worn on him that she’s able to push him into a sit without too much difficulty.  
  
“It should be safe here,” Pidge tells him. “If you’re okay with it, I’m gonna go help Keith and Hunk bring down Kartek, and see if Lance was able to get all the runners.”  
  
She’s still watching him with concern, and picks her words carefully with a forced calm tone, like she’s trying to not upset him. It occurs to Shiro very, _very_ belatedly that she—and probably the rest of the paladins—might think he’s dealing with some kind of flashback. And really, considering the circumstances, why wouldn’t they? That would explain why they rushed to defend him and get him out of danger the moment he stopped responding to them. Why Pidge seems hesitant now to leave him, even if her teammates might need assistance in the battle.  
  
He wants to explain that that’s not the case, and that he’s fine, really. Except it’s never been more clear then at that moment that he’s definitely _not_ fine, even if it’s not for the reason they think. He almost…he almost got all of them killed. He’s finding it hard to focus on most things, but _that’s_ the central thought that keeps coming back to him. He almost got them _killed_. Because they trusted him to make a decision at a crucial moment and he couldn’t do it. It wasn’t just that he froze—he was literally _incapable_ of making the choice. They could have died and it would have been on him.   
  
And if he goes back in now, he can’t guarantee that he won’t fail them at exactly the wrong moment again.   
  
So he just nods weakly, and rasps, “I’ll be okay here. Go. Hurry.”   
  
Pidge gives him a suspicious look for a moment, probably expecting Shiro to attempt to join the fight as soon as she’s gone. She doesn’t have to worry—now that Shiro’s sitting, he’s honestly not sure he could even get up again. She seems to realize it, because after a moment she nods. “Okay. Stay safe. We’ll all be right back, as soon as the danger’s gone. Call if you need help.” And she darts back out of the alcove, already re-summoning her bayard as she barrels towards Kartek.   
  
Shiro can just barely see the fight from this mostly-hidden side tunnel, and forces himself to keep watching it—giving himself something to focus on is helping to keep him even somewhat aware, and he’s afraid if he lets his mind wander he’ll pass out again. He _can’t_ do that, not now, not on a battlefield.   
  
So he watches as Keith and Hunk tag-team Kartek, Hunk shooting the barrel of Kartek’s weapon out of alignment while Keith darts in and out like a striking snake to cut away at the opponent’s armor. He can’t see Lance, but he can hear Lance’s bayard and see flashes of blue around the corner of the warren-town streets, enough to know he’s hard at work. He watches Pidge join the fight, tangling the enemy’s cannon in her bayard, and watches as Hunk seamlessly swaps targets to disappear around the corner and help Lance with the stray runners.   
  
Shiro should feel so proud of them, for handling themselves so well in such a rocky situation. He knows he _should_ feel that, that logically this is what he’s felt in the past, but somehow he just can’t get his mind and his heart quite there.   
  
That should scare him, but he can’t really feel fear either. It’s also just too far away and too hard to manage.  
  
In fact, the only thing he _really_ feels is frustration. His metal fingers twitch as he watches the battle. He wants so badly to join—to help bring Kartek down—to deal the final blow. Maybe if he could he’d stop feeling so _useless_ , knowing he could at least protect his team and carry his own damn weight. To prove this exhaustion and this hunger and this clouded feeling in his head don’t make him completely worthless. To prove he can handle things in spite of it. _Because_ of it.   
  
But he stays put, knowing he’ll be more of a liability than a help. And they manage, in the end. Keith severs the opponent’s armor and Pidge tasers him into unconsciousness. Hunk comes around the corner dragging the smaller unconscious Galra agent after him, and Lance carries a heavy wooden ornamental box, which he hands over to several grateful natives.   
  
They succeed, but none of them look victorious, not like they usually do. Based on past experience, Shiro knows that Lance should be gloating about his part in the win, Hunk should be smiling and enthusing over their victory, Pidge should be grinning, Keith should be smirking to himself—if he’s not ribbing Lance over his gloating. None of them look happy, though. They manage to keep calm out of a professional need for the anxious, grateful natives surrounding them, but Shiro can tell there’s something subdued about their actions, like their hearts aren’t really in it.  
  
For a moment he wonders if they’re dealing with whatever he is, too. It takes him a depressingly long time to realize it’s not something they have in common with him right now—it’s because they’re _worried_ about him.   
  
And that should make him feel worse. He knows he doesn’t want them losing out on a hard-earned moment of victory over _him,_ especially not when _his_ actions nearly got them killed to begin with.   
  
But that, too, he can’t quite bring himself to feel. Not even when they approach his little hiding spot Pidge had stashed him in with open concern on their faces. Not even when they ask him how he’s doing, if he’s feeling alright. Not even when Hunk slings Shiro’s natural arm over his shoulder and helps him walk out of the warren-town into the open air above and back to his Lion. He’s too tired and starved and gray to bring himself to feel bad, but Shiro is still there enough to be aware of it all—the concerned looks, the worried questions, the anxious exchanged glances with each other.   
  
And that’s when it hits Shiro that they, too, are also aware that something is really, really wrong.  
  


* * *

 

He doesn’t even try to argue when Allura puts him off duty for the next week or so.   
  
Technically, she takes them _all_ off duty. “We have had many victories recently, paladins,” she tells them the next day after the warren battle, once everyone is patched up and rested. Assuming they _can_ rest. “And while those victories are essential to our mission, and we have a great deal farther to go, we must also remember our own health and wellbeing. If we fall, there is no one to pick up the fight behind us. Voltron is essential. Therefore, I will be moving the Castle of Lions to a secure location for approximately one Earth week to allow for recuperation and recovery.”   
  
So, technically they’re _all_ pulled from Voltron duties for a week, but Shiro is no fool. He’s worn down and definitely not at his strongest right now, but he can see enough of the signs to know all of this is really being done for _him_ , specifically. He can see it in the way Lance and Hunk _don’t_ clammer excitedly over the unexpected vacation, or the way Keith doesn’t snort in disgust at the delay, or the way Pidge doesn’t immediately delve into some kind of project or research to find her lost family. He can tell in the way all of them, Alteans included, watch him with concern even when they think they’re being clever about hiding it.   
  
A part of him thinks that maybe he should be offended or embarrassed by this. He doesn’t like being coddled or treated like he’s made of glass, much less by those he’s supposed to be protecting. He’s not sure he likes his team making the assumption that he’s having some kind of mental break and needs the time off. He’s managed this long without it, right? Can’t they trust him?   
  
But he’s just…he’s just _tired_. He probably should care, but he doesn’t, which is probably enough of an indicator that this whole break is needed. Especially considering how completely he managed to fail them all yesterday. Logically, they’re probably right to be concerned. He’s not reliable right now, and they need him to be for his duties as the head of Voltron. If they think a break will help…  
  
Well, maybe it will. They can hope, and he can at least make an effort.   
  
So he tries. He really does, no matter how difficult it is. He tries to ignore the way it feels like someone is always watching him, keeping an eye on him for the next week, making sure they’re nearby if he needs help or wants to talk or something. Even the mice seem to get in on the action; he’s caught their little tails whipping around corners behind him, or heard them clicking through the air vents and over pipes on more than one occasion.   
  
He tries to reassure them, whenever one of the paladins asks (in varying degrees of subtlety) if he’s feeling okay and if he needs anything. He’s fine, he insists, really, just a little tired, that’s all. The week of rest ought to do him a little good, he promises, now that they have a chance to _not_ have to constantly focus on getting anything done for a week. They really have nothing to worry about. It will be fine.  
  
Truth be told, he repeats the phrases mostly by rote, using the same things he’s said time and time again. He’s pretty sure rest won’t do him much good at all. Sleep still doesn’t feel _fulfilling_ , and he feels more exhausted when he wakes up than when he goes to bed, assuming he even _can_ fall asleep anymore. As the days go by he spends more time staring at the ceiling over his bunk, or in a half doze that’s not real _sleep_ but not exactly fully awake, either. His brain is so clouded but it just won’t shut down; it just keeps struggling to act and think and feel, even when it gets harder and harder by the day.  
  
And sleep wouldn’t help deal with the other things, anyway. Like the strange not-hunger that’s getting stronger every day. He feels starved now, even if he doesn’t know what he’s starving for. It’s still not food—Hunk and Coran have been practically falling over themselves to make sure Shiro is eating regularly and eating healthy in the hopes that it will make him feel better.   
  
Or the way he struggles more and more to feel things, the way he always feels so gray and empty, the way he’s becoming more listless and regularly confused by even small things. He doesn’t understand their concerns, sometimes. He gets irritated with even minor responsibilities that never used to bother him before. Choices still trip him up, whenever he’s asked to make even basic decisions, like which movie they should watch at team movie night, which snack he’s interested in, or which game they should play next. He struggles with these, unsure _how_ to make a decision, though thankfully they no longer have the same sense of screaming urgency, and eventually the choices stop coming to him. He’s not sure if the team stops asking because it’s irritating when he doesn’t answer or they’re taking pity on him when he can’t figure out even something so simple. Either way is frustrating, which is one of the few things he can still feel.  
  
But they’re trying. They’re trying _so hard_ to look out for him, and he can see it. The way there is always someone there in case he needs them, the way they’ve all offered or hinted in their own ways that they’re all there to talk or listen or help in any way if he needs it. The way they’ve organized a number of group activities—movie nights and games and a relaxing day at the little lake on the planet Allura found for them to hide on—all intended to help recharge and spend time together and take a break from the constant battles. The way they’re constantly encouraging him to rest and take it easy, the way they take it a little slower or repeat themselves with surprising patience when his wandering mind has trouble keeping up.  
  
They’re trying so hard, so Shiro does, too. He takes what comfort he can in their offers for help and assures them that the moment he does need anyone, he knows where he can go—even if he has no interest in actually doing so. He attends the group activities and tries to enjoy them, even if it wears on him, even if the cheerful and relaxed moods don’t really feel like they reach him, even if he feels more tired after them than when they started. He struggles to force his mind to keep up and pay attention, even when he feels more listless and disoriented by the day, and tries to rest when they suggest it, even if it doesn’t do anything.  
  
It’s clear to everyone, Shiro included, that none of their efforts help. Halfway through their week off he still feels like something’s wrong, still feels starved and empty, still feels gray and tired.   
  
That’s when Shiro decides it’s time for more drastic measures. And he heads for the training deck.   
  
Training seriously has been off-limits to him (and, technically, the others as well) since the forced vacation week began. Shiro understands the need for it, but it’s left him anxious and twitchy. Literally, even—since the warren battle he’s found himself tapping his metal fingers often against whatever surface he can find, like it helps relieve some tension. Some, but not enough, and when he can feel things it’s often frustration.   
  
He wants to fight. He feels like he needs to, almost. That if he can get a good practice session in and work out some of his frustrations and wear himself out enough, he’ll be able to pass out into a _real_ sleep and maybe fix himself of some of this… _whatever_ is happening to him. He’s not sure why, and the logic doesn’t make sense exactly—he’s been fighting for weeks and only getting worse. But he feels like, if he can just get one good battle in, he’s sure he might start to feel better.  
  
“I’m not sure about this, man,” Lance says, following him anxiously to the training deck. “Allura says we’re supposed to be taking it easy. Pretty sure a Gladiator session doesn’t count as ‘easy.’ “   
  
Something about the way Lance says it is unusual, Shiro thinks. It’s not the normal way he complains about training. He doesn’t sound annoyed, or like he’s trying to evade out of laziness—he sounds worried.   
  
Shiro catches it—harder to distinguish, now—which is why he answers at all. “You don’t have to join, Lance. Like you said—Allura gave you permission to not train for this week. If you don’t want to, I won’t force you.”   
  
“It’s not _me_ I’m worried about,” Lance says. “You’re really not gonna take it easy? How about we have Allura or Coran let us out by the beach again—“  
  
He’s really not going to let up, and Shiro shakes his head with a sigh. He hasn’t exactly been willing to talk about the things going on in his head—he’s still not sure what’s wrong, but he doesn’t want to worry anyone more than he already clearly has—but it seems he needs at least some sort of excuse here. “Lance, I just—I need to burn off some steam, okay? Wear myself out enough that I can get a good night’s rest, if I’m lucky. I won’t push it too hard, just the lowest setting. I just…I need to try to _move_.”   
  
Lance bites his lip at that, looking concerned. “I thought you told Hunk this morning that you got some rest?”  
  
Some. Maybe an hour. Shiro doesn’t say so, but his silence is probably answer enough. Lance sighs, and says, “Look, can we please just get the others in here, at least? I mean—just in case, uh—“  
  
In case something goes wrong. In case he freezes up again. In case he makes a target. The Gladiator won’t attack lethally, but it can still do a fair bit of damage if one isn’t careful. And Shiro…hasn’t exactly been in the best condition combat-wise, recently.   
  
“Alright,” Shiro agrees after a moment. “Fine. But only if they want to. This isn’t a mandatory training session.” He doesn’t have the right to order them around right now. Not when that would imply leadership, and he’s too tired and frustrated by that role to want it, and too much of a failure at it to earn it.  
  
“Sure, sure,” Lance says hastily. “I’ll make that real clear. Just…stay here. Don’t start anything until I call everyone, okay?”  
  
Shiro stays put, just outside the training deck door, trying to gather his strength, get his head in the game again. His fingers tap absently against the metal wall, a sharp _click-click-click_ that seems to get progressively louder the longer he waits. It’s aggravating, but he can’t seem to stop.   
  
But it will be okay. The more he thinks on it, the more confident he feels that a good training session will loosen up his tenseness a little and help him feel better. Will help him rest. Will help him feel less…empty. It’s the first time he’s felt reasonably confident about something in weeks.   
  
Shiro isn’t remotely surprised when all the paladins arrive, and Coran and Allura make their way up to the control room. For a non-mandatory session, they’re all feeling very strongly about volunteering, it seems. None of them are in their armor, but all of them have their bayards in hand, and they’re all wearing carefully composed looks that do absolutely nothing to mask their obvious misgivings.   
  
Shiro tries not to feel too irritated and resentful by that. They’re just worried about him. That’s what a team does, right?   
  
Not that he’s the expert on teams at the moment. Hell, he’s supposed to be the leader, but he wouldn’t follow himself at the moment, much less expect them to follow him. His head’s not in the game right now. They’re right to be worried—something’s not right and he’s spending his precious, weak thoughts being irritated at them rather than listening to their feedback and making rational calls. He can’t even make calls right now. He’s a pathetic excuse for a black paladin.  
  
 _This should fix that,_ he insists to himself. _Just one good fight. That’s all I need_. He’s not sure how he knows. Instinct, maybe. Whatever the case, it’s past time for this entire mess to be over.  
  
“You sure about this, Shiro?” Keith asks, frowning. His sword bayard is out, but it’s loose by his side, not at the ready. “I mean, I’m all for extra training sessions, you know that, but maybe you should take it easy.”  
  
That’s rich, coming from Keith, and Shiro _almost_ says something, but something in the back of his head—that little voice that has kept insisting for him to _keep fighting_ for weeks now—reins him in. _You’re losing control, you’re losing focus, stop,_ it insists. _This isn’t right. Stop. Tell them what’s happening._   
  
He listens enough to at least filter himself. But he just can’t be bothered with something like _talking_ , not when he has a more clear-cut solution in front of him now.   
  
“I’ll be fine, Keith,” he says.   
  
Keith doesn’t look like he buys it. Hunk steps forward and says hesitantly, “Are you _really_ sure, Shiro? It’s just…you look really… _really_ beat. Maybe you should go lay down instead?”  
  
And stare at the ceiling for another few hours, with his mind spinning and going nowhere? No. “Just one session. Lowest setting, nothing crazy. Just enough to work off some energy, then I promise I’ll take a nap after.”   
  
None of them look particularly happy by this answer, but they all settle around Shiro, bayards at the ready. Something about having his own personal honor guard irritates him a little—they’ll get in the way, he doesn’t need babysitting, he needs free movement—but he shakes his head tiredly at the thoughts a moment later. This is a _team exercise_ after all. They’re doing what they’ve been trained to do. He can’t get annoyed at them for that. He’s not a solo combatant here, he’s still supposed to be their leader, and they’re acting accordingly.  
  
What a joke. He’s not fit to lead anything. He really shouldn’t be.   
  
“Lowest Gladiator setting has been activated,” Coran’s voice comes over the intercom. He sounds uneasy. “Please be careful, paladins.”   
  
Shiro’s concentration is shot, but he doesn’t miss the way Coran’s voice hesitates on the word ‘paladins,’ and has a feeling the warning is directed at him more than anything else.   
  
The Gladiator drops down into the training deck, wielding a staff today. The paladins immediately launch into action—Hunk and Lance hit it from far away to slow it as it darts towards them all, and Pidge uses her bayard to snag the quarterstaff and jerk it out of the digitized robot’s hands. Undeterred, it launches itself at Shiro, hands outstretched to grapple. His mind feels hazy, but his body remembers the motions, at least, and he swats aside the grasping hands with a martial arts technique, prepping for a retaliatory strike—  
  
—and the Gladiator dissolves into bits of data as Keith’s sword slices through it from behind.   
  
For a moment Shiro is stunned, and he feels frozen in place, right fist still raised as though to strike. He’s not sure _what_ to feel—angry, frustrated, exhausted all come to mind—and the end result is a confused stare.   
  
Keith looks back worriedly. “Shiro? You okay? I thought I flanked it fast enough—“  
  
Flanking. Right. Standard combat procedure, especially for close-combat fighters like himself or Keith—while the opponent is focused on one, the other should assist. Keith was just doing exactly what he was trained to do, attack as a team and protect the others. Really, Shiro should be _proud_ of him, for Keith to be getting used to team maneuvers more like that.   
  
It wasn’t stealing a win. It definitely wasn’t stealing the victory shot.   
  
Shiro’s metal fingers tap reflexively against each other, with their obnoxious twitchy _click-click-click,_ and he forces the frustration down as far as he can. It’s more of a struggle than it should be, especially when he’s got nothing else inside him filling up the space at the moment.   
  
“Shiro?” Pidge edges closer, looking concerned as well. “You okay?”  
  
“Fine. I’m fine,” Shiro insists. “Let’s try another. One level up. That one was too easy, we burned it down too fast.” And, because he has a feeling he’s supposed to say something encouraging and leader-like at a point like this, and that’s what they would _expect_ , he adds, “We’ve really come a long way since the first time we fought this thing.”   
  
They all look very uncomfortable at this. “What about the same level again?” Lance offers, in a clear attempt at compromise. “We can try some different maneuvers?”  
  
“Next level,” Shiro repeats. He also wants to yell, and _everyone else back away,_ but that little voice in the back of his head reins him in again.   
  
Everyone exchanges uneasy glances, but after a moment Keith finally says, “Coran? One level up on the Gladiator.”  
  
There’s a long pause, before Coran says hesitantly over the intercom, “You’re sure?”  
  
“Yes. We’ve brought down a level six together, this should be fine.” Shiro doesn’t miss the underlying _we’re all here to keep an eye on him_ in that, but he’s too busy focusing on keeping his own thoughts moving to care.   
  
There’s another long pause, before Allura’s voice says, “Very well. Level two Gladiator is activated. Take care.”  
  
A new robot drops down to the training deck. This fight goes better—it’s a little trickier for the rest of the paladins to control how far the Gladiator can get when it’s faster and has increased combat experience programmed into it. Shiro is able to get a few solid hits in without the paladins deliberately keeping him from the fight, before Hunk blasts it from the side and Pidge and Keith fall upon it, dissolving it into data.   
  
Shiro feels _slightly_ better for it, but not by much. Even those few hits have him panting for breath, and his muscles feel weak. He feels tired, but he’s not sure it’s enough to really put him to sleep; it just feels like an extension of the exhausted emptiness he’s already felt. His right fingers twitch in frustration. He’s _missing_ something. This is supposed to make him feel better—the more difficult the fight, he is sure, the less empty he’s supposed to feel when it’s over.   
  
“One more time,” Shiro says.   
  
The rest of the paladins look alarmed. “Shiro, I really think you should go lay down,” Hunk says. “You look really wiped out from that. We can try again later if you _really_ want to, but…”  
  
“Once more,” Shiro insists, half gasping. “I promise I’ll take a break after. Just one more round.” And, before he can really stop himself, something else slips out, holding more of his frustration and desperation than he’d have liked. _“Please.”_  
  
It’s that plea that convinces them, he realizes a moment later. They still look very hesitant, but Keith finally raises his voice to yell to Coran, “One more time, same level.”   
  
“I really advise against this—“  
  
“It’s the last time, Coran,” Keith says— _very_ firmly, like he’s repeating it for Shiro’s sake just as much as the adviser’s. “Once this one is done you can shut it all down.”   
  
Shiro hears the warning in that. Part of it is frustrating, but he _did_ promise, and…and that’s important, right? Something about that is important. Not breaking one’s promises. He’s pretty sure.  
  
There’s a long sigh over the intercom, and then Coran says, “Very well. Gladiator activated. For the _last time_. Please be careful.”  
  
The robot drops down again, staff in hand. And once again, things are a little trickier; it’s fast and moves fluidly and skillfully, and Shiro can tell the other paladins are having trouble keeping it corralled away from him. _Good._   
  
And then things go off-kilter. Shiro stumbles for just a moment—his whole body feels so weak and his legs are like jelly, and his coordination is just as off as his thoughts are. He recovers, but his stumble startles Keith, who has been sticking near him like a bodyguard for the whole fight and keeping an eye on him.   
  
Keith turns to ask if he’s okay, and the Gladiator—programmed to take advantage of any drop in defense—strikes, catching Keith in the side with its staff and flinging him across the training deck. Keith hits the ground with a grunt and rolls to his feet with a wince, but now he’s on the other side of the room.  
  
And Shiro finds himself alone against the Gladiator, suddenly. He’s between Lance, Hunk, and the robot, meaning they can’t risk firing without hitting one of their own, and Pidge is out of range for her bayard. They’re all shouting in alarm, but Shiro can’t make out the words, just a rush of noise as the Gladiator lunges towards him, staff raised to strike—  
  
 _—his challenger lunges towards him, dagger raised to strike. Both of them are wounded, but this is the moment when it ends, the moment victory is assured and one of them truly lives—_  
  
Yes. _Yes._ This is the moment he’s been waiting for—  
  
The Gladiator crashes into him and Shiro swings his right arm, smashing his fist into the side of its blank face. It stumbles but recovers quickly, already twirling its staff and twisting back at him. _Not enough_ , he realizes. _Need more power. More strength. More speed. Need it to win, need it to live_ —  
  
He doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until he hears the thrum of power his right arm makes every time it lights up. That’s when he realizes that something in the back of his mind has been concentrating on powering it up ever since the Gladiator first charged him.   
  
_No!_ something in his mind screeches in alarm, _no, no, no, this is dangerous, remember—_  
  
But it’s too late. Even as his violet-white fingers twitch with crackling power and launch for the Gladiator’s head, he realizes his mistake. A wave of dizziness crashes over him, and color seems to drain from his vision; everything seems gray and fuzzy now. He feels bone-tired down to the depths of is very _being_ , and the emptiness in him becomes a void, insistent, demanding, _screaming_. His right hand sparks once and dies, fingers still twitching, and everything about him feels so slow and sluggish.   
  
The Gladiator’s staff smashes into his side. It’s so fast Shiro barely sees it, and he has no chance of blocking. It sends him flying, and he crashes to the deck, sliding several feet until he skids to a stop. Something inside him is screaming to _get up, get up, get up,_ and that little voice that’s been guiding him recently is in agreement. But he can’t make his arms work, either of them. Can’t push himself up even a little.   
  
He lays there and waits. This is the part when he dies, right? Sounds about right. It sounds like something that should bother him, but his thoughts are so sluggish, and any ability to feel anything at all is so far down, it doesn’t bother him as much as it probably should.  
  
“Somebody guard him!”  
  
“Shut it down, shut it down _now!_ ”  
  
 _“Shiro!”_  
  
Shiro blinks when a pair of sneakers slide into his vision. He thinks whoever it is is crouching defensively in front of him, but he can’t tell who. His vision is still curiously gray; he can’t identify which paladin is trying to protect him.   
  
He’s not sure how much time passes. He’s aware of a lot of sound, people shouting mostly although he can’t make out the words, and he can feel vibrations in the floor that he assumes means there’s a lot of moving going on too. He’s not really sure. Thinking and focusing is…is really, _really_ hard. He’s never felt like _this_ before, not since the first time he noticed that odd fatigue, and it’s…he doesn’t know. He just…he feels so _empty_. Like a human-shaped shell, devoid of absolutely _anything_ important, like thinking and feeling and connecting and…and hell even _color’s_ gone and abandoned him, he needs those for…for _Voltron,_ for…and the other things, for his team, because…because he’s supposed to lead…right? That’s what he does?   
  
But he’s too empty to be anything. Too empty and too tired and too gray and—  
  
“Shiro?”  
  
He blinks. At some point the sneakers turned into a person—Lance—and the others are all crouched around him, looking anxious. The speaker is Hunk, who sounds urgent and anxious, Shiro thinks. It’s hard to tell.   
  
“Shiro? You okay? You with us?”  
  
Shiro blinks again. The same question as last time. Where the hell do they think he’s going? He’s right _here_ , isn’t he? Then again, it’s not like he can really remember. The past…however long…has been very confusing. It’s so hard to focus. Maybe he did go somewhere. Maybe they know better. Maybe he—  
  
“Shiro? C’mon, man, answer us if you can.”  
  
Lance. He sounds scared, maybe. He looks it, Shiro thinks. Maybe it’s a good idea to answer.   
  
“M’here,” he slurs after a moment. Wherever he might’ve been before, he’s pretty sure he’s here now. Probably.   
  
“How are you feeling? Were you injured anywhere?”  
  
That’s…that’s Allura. The princess. He doesn’t remember her being here. She was….she was somewhere else, right? She’d been somewhere else. Just a voice. But now she’s here.   
  
He frowns in confusion. How’d she get here? Maybe they should be asking _her_ if she’s with them or not.  
  
“He got clocked in the side pretty good by that staff,” Shiro hears someone—Keith, he thinks—answer. “His ribs might be battered. But I don’t think he hit his head.”  
  
“Doesn’t explain why he’s out of it like this, if he didn’t get some kind of concussion,” someone else says. Pidge, he thinks.   
  
“He’s been out of it for days,” Lance says. “I think this just jump-started whatever’s been going on and made it worse.”   
  
“It didn’t get really bad until he started fighting solo,” Keith adds. “Whatever’s going on, this put more stress on him than he could afford, but it didn’t get really bad until we weren’t there to cover him.”   
  
“That doesn’t explain why he wanted to do combat sessions so bad to begin with,” Hunk says—Shiro thinks he sounds unusually grim, for Hunk. “But we shouldn’t have let it get this far to begin with…”  
  
Shiro thinks most of them look guilty at that. He’s not really sure why.   
  
He feels someone’s touch, light and careful, on his forehead, carefully brushing his mess of white bangs back from his face. It startles him, but he doesn’t even have the energy to jump. “No fever,” someone—Pidge, he thinks—reports. “He’s not sick, but…Shiro? How are you feeling?”  
  
That seems to be a question directed at him. How’s he feeling? He’s not really sure how to answer. Exhausted. Gray. Starving. Blank. Confused. Listless. Void. Uncaring. Dull.  
  
“Empty,” he finally slurs. It takes all the energy he has to get it out, all the concentration he possesses to succeed.   
  
It’s hard to focus on anything around him after that. But he’s pretty sure he catches all of them exchanging worried, alarmed, and _scared_ looks as they huddle around him. And he’s pretty sure that’s not a good sign, whatever it means.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appear to have distressed the lot of you. Here is my offering of appeasement: one answer.

* * *

 

"Too tired to live. Too afraid to die."  
~ _The Wind Singer_ , William Nicholson

* * *

  
  
“He hasn’t any quintessence,” Allura says, sounding stunned.  
  
Shiro’s not sure how much time has passed since the training deck. It’s all been a blur since then, of everything moving too quickly around him—though, probably it’s more like he’s just moving too slow for the world. It’s hard to keep track, to stay focused.   
  
He doesn’t actually remember moving, but he knows they’re in the infirmary now. He knows _that_ mostly because, while he doesn’t remember the journey there, he does remember the end, when they tried to coax him into laying down on one of the examination tables for Coran and Allura to look at him. He hadn’t much energy left in him, but he’d fought them on that, struggling to rise, feeling the first edges of panic on the fringes of his otherwise empty mind. Dark things slither in the back of his mind when he’s laying back on the table and he can’t, he _can’t_ do it again, not again.  
  
He’s not sure what to feel about _that._ On the one hand it’s the first clear-cut, strong _feeling_ he’s felt in quite some time and that’s almost a relief. But on the other hand the memories and the feelings of _terror_ creeping at the back of his senses are almost enough to want to make him return to the new mental oblivion he’s been in. He’s not sure which he prefers.  
  
They don’t fight him on it, fortunately, and Shiro finds himself in a compromise instead. He’s sitting upright on one of the tables, though not under his own power. Hunk stands next to him at the corner of the table, and he’s more or less flopped against the yellow paladin’s right side, with one of Hunk’s arms around his shoulders to keep him steady. The others hover at the edges of his vision, looking anxious and worried, while Allura and Coran look him over with some sort of high tech scanners and screens upon screens of holographic output that Shiro can’t make any sense of.   
  
After his fight to stay upright, Shiro hasn’t had much energy left in him for anything else. He leans against Hunk’s side, docile and unmoving, silent other than the rhythmic _click-click-click_ he can hear more than feel his right fingers tapping out on the table, metal against metal. While he’s aware of the others around him, and can hear the murmurs of their voices, and see the flickers of the screens, it’s all just too much input for him to make sense of. He lets it all wash over him without really taking any of it in. It’s too much to focus on and he’s just too tired and starved and dulled inside to care.   
  
But Allura’s exclamation has enough energy to it that he blinks, and shifts his head a little against Hunk’s shoulder to stare at her, trying to pay attention again. The others’ responses are even more animated. Coran looks like he’s been hit over the head, Hunk’s arm tightens a little around Shiro’s shoulders as if shielding him, and Lance, Keith and Pidge all start talking over each other in increasingly loud voices.   
  
Shiro winces at all the noise he can’t pick apart, and almost immediately everyone goes quiet. After a moment, Pidge asks, “What, _none?_ Like _none at all?_ I thought that stuff was important to…well… _living_.”   
  
“He has very little,” Allura corrects herself, although based on her worried frown, this isn’t much of a comfort. “Enough to still maintain basic life functions, but not healthily, and there are…quite a lot of other complications.”  
  
“Understatement,” Lance mutters under his breath.   
  
“I thought this quintessence stuff was just…fuel,” Keith says, frowning. “That’s what the Galra were doing at that refinery, right? Turning it into fuel for their ships and things? Because it’s an energy source, or something?”  
  
“Quintessence _is_ a potential source of energy,” Coran explains. “But one can’t undermine its more magical components. Everything alive or sentient should have quintessence. It’s an intrinsic part of every being, and even varies between individuals of the same species.”  
  
“So it’s like, what…a soul?” Hunk asks. Shiro feels the yellow paladin’s arm tighten protectively around his shoulders again. He might feel touched at the clear concern and defensiveness, if he didn’t feel so tired.  
  
“In a manner of speaking,” Allura says. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, but many religions around the universe do include doctrine that often references quintessence in a more spiritual manner. Even our own Lions connect specifically to a pilot’s quintessence that mirrors their own and their desired traits most closely. It’s vital for anything living.”  
  
“And Shiro’s is just _gone?_ ” Lance asks incredulously. “Or… _mostly_ gone. How does that even happen?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Allura frets. “It shouldn’t be possible. Quintessence can be forcibly stolen, or willingly transferred. Even naturally in an individual it will ebb and flow with their health or mood. But to simply lose this much so drastically…”  
  
“Though this does explain some of his erratic behavior recently,” Coran adds after a moment. He, too, looks worried, and he frowns when he speaks. “Quintessence is tied strongly to personality traits. Like the princess said, it’s how the Lions determine their pilots. The Black Lion chooses individuals with quintessence tied strongly to leadership, trustworthiness, and decision-making skills. If Shiro’s been drained of quintessence somehow, it would have started drastically diminishing those qualities, too.”  
  
There’s a soft shuffle of movement around him, and Shiro is distantly aware that the paladins are staring at him. He has a vague impression that Coran has said something truly significant, but he can’t quite wrap his head around the words.   
  
Fortunately, the others are more than happy to expand on that, and he struggles to pay attention. “That…would explain a few things,” Lance says slowly. “He’s been kinda out of it recently.”   
  
“Distant,” Keith agrees, frowning. “Like he’s not as connected to the team as usual. He’s usually the one stressing teamwork, but…”   
  
Hunk nods, and Shiro can feel the movement slightly. “He was having trouble with Voltron too,” he adds. “You could feel he was masking it pretty well, but he had a real hard time connecting enough to form Voltron. And holding it together after was really rough.”   
  
“He freezes up when he has to make decisions,” Pidge says. “Even the little things, but…I mean, back on Hilrusk, he totally froze up when we demanded an order. I figured it was because of some kind of flashback, but…but if that’s one of his major qualities and losing his quintessence this badly starts taking that away…”   
  
Shiro blinks. Oh. _Oh_. Suddenly things make a lot more sense, even to his struggling mind. He’s felt things have been _off_ for a while, he’s known something has been Wrong. He knows he’s struggled to fly, to treat the others like they deserve, to be the leader figure they’ve come to need. He knows he’s been distant, and he knows it’s been so difficult to even bother to care about any of it—that something was wrong, or about his role as a paladin, or about the _mission_ at all.   
  
He knows he’s felt like he’s starving, _empty_. He’s hungered for something that’s not food for _weeks_ , he’s known something’s missing. But he’s never been able to place what he’s starving for. Until now, anyway.   
  
It’s difficult to focus even now, and he can’t bring himself to feel strong relief, exactly. Feeling anything at all must be strongly tied to having enough quintessence to feel alive to begin with. But it is nice to know that at least he’s…he’s not having some kind of mental breakdown, or slipping farther into his own head. This isn’t _good_ by any means, but at least he’s not such a mental wreck that he’s endangering the others. He can take some comfort in that, at least, difficult as it is to feel it at the moment.  
  
“He said he felt… _empty_ ,” Keith says, frowning. “And he doesn’t look so good.”  
  
“That’s hardly surprising,” Allura says, frowning deeply. “Quintessence may be linked to a person’s core qualities, but it’s also vital for physical survival. He certainly would have felt the effects of its loss. We know he hasn’t been sleeping well at the very least. And for anything alive to lose too much quintessence…it will certainly leave them weak. Very weak.”  
  
“Like the Balmera,” Hunk says. “The Galra kept taking and it just kept getting worse. Until…”   
  
Shiro can’t see Hunk’s face at this angle, but he does _feel_ the sudden intake of breath from where he’s leaning against the yellow paladin’s side. He can see the other paladins’ eyes widening as they, too, realize what that means.   
  
“Yes,” Allura says hesitantly, looking grim but also unwilling to hide the truth. “Lose too much, and…”   
  
She lets it hang, uneasy, but even Shiro’s struggling mind can deduce where that thought ends.   
  
The realization really should scare him. Shiro has faced down death before—it’s a necessary risk as a defender of the universe or an explorer in the unknown, and he was never given a choice about it in the arena. It’s something he accepts could very well happen to him at any moment in his current line of work, and while it’s not a reality he’s thrilled about, it _is_ reality. But he’s always figured he’d die with a weapon in his hand, spitting in the face of the Galra, or doing something with purpose—protecting the universe, protecting his friends. _This_ —this won’t be going down in a fight or dying for anything meaningful. It would just be wasting away, useless and helpless. And Shiro has always _hated_ being useless and helpless. So this _should_ scare the hell out of him, but he just feels tired and dull, just like he has for days.   
  
Maybe that’s a good thing, though. He’s really not sure.   
  
“Okay, but there has to be _something_ we can do, right?” Lance cuts through Shiro’s thoughts, looking anxious. “I mean, he’s not out of time yet, you said he was just _mostly_ missing his quintessence. That means there’s still some there, right? Can’t we heal it or something?”  
  
“Yeah,” Keith agrees. “What about the cryo-pods? Can that fix quintessence stuff?”  
  
The others huddle closer, waiting on the answer. Hunk’s arm tightens around Shiro’s shoulders again. Shiro struggles to focus on the answer himself, knowing in the back of his mind that it’s important.   
  
Coran answers, after exchanging glances with Allura. “They might assist with some quintessence rejuvenation,” he says slowly. “Living things will naturally rebuild quintessence over time during ebbs and flows, if they sustain injury or if biorhythms are pushed out of alignment. The cryo-pods just accelerate that. but they aren’t intended to be rechargers for quintessence. It wouldn’t assist with loss _this_ devastating.”   
  
The paladins look horrified. “But there’s got to be _something_ we can do!” Lance says, alarm in his tone. “We can’t just leave him like this!”  
  
“What about whatever it was you did on the Balmera?” Pidge asks. “You said it was like that. Can’t you fix him like that?”  
  
“The rejuvenation ceremony?” Coran says, surprised. “That was intended for massive creatures like the Balmera that can handle large amounts of raw quintessence. It was designed to replace the equivalent amount of energy to what was harvested by the Alteans…a symbiotic interaction. I’m not sure how it would work on a smaller scale with a human that was never a part of that symbiotic relationship…it might be more harmful than helpful, even assuming the princess could do it.”   
  
“But I’m still willing to try it,” Allura adds, before the devastated looks can truly set in on the paladins’ faces. “As long as I can filter how much energy is transferred…the last time I used the ship and crystal as an amplifier, but that was to cure an entire planet-sized creature. That much raw energy almost certainly _would_ harm Shiro, but if I can filter it down, and use my own quintessence to temper it…it might be able to work.”   
  
“You’re sure, princess?” Coran asks. “This isn’t nearly to the same scale as the Balmera, but you’ve only ever attempted the ceremony once, and that with aid from the Balmerans. This could be very delicate work. There may still be other solutions…”  
  
But he doesn’t look like he believes it, and Allura shakes her head. “No. This has already been going on for far too long, and Shiro is very weak. I’m not sure we have time to find other options, and I will not let one of my paladins fall when I may have a way to save them.”   
  
Something about that declaration actually bothers Shiro. In his current desolate emotional landscape, this is a spark of feeling strong enough to draw the attention of his struggling mind, and he frowns. “No,” he says, almost before he realizes he’s speaking.  
  
The others turn to stare at him, surprised. He’s been so out of it, they probably hadn’t expected to hear anything at all from him. “Shiro?” Keith says after a moment, sounding confused, tentative. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”  
  
 _“No,”_ Shiro repeats. Talking is hard, and focusing on getting his scrambled thoughts into something understandable is a chore in and of itself. He still slurs slightly when he speaks. Despite that he tries, and tries, too, to lift his head from Hunk’s shoulder, to better look around at the group. He feels Hunk shifting slightly to help him. That sends tiny sparks of _irritation-annoyance-frustration_ through his mind, tiny bits of feeling that he’s almost as starved for as quintessence, that only serve to fuel him a little further. “No. Can’t do…that. Allura…was sick for…days after that. Can’t…risk.”  
  
Allura frowns at that, looking annoyed. Shiro belatedly remembers she hates being treated like a _helpless_ princess that needs protecting, but it’s too late to take back the words. Besides, he knows his mind is a little scrambled right now, and he’s apparently not exactly himself at the moment, but he’s pretty certain this is something he’d think is important if he were in his right mind. And now that he _knows_ what’s wrong with himself, he’s got to try and live up to the person he’s supposed to be, right? Even if it’s so _hard_ , and he finds it exhausting to care.   
  
“Shiro!”  
  
Shiro blinks, confused, when Hunk squeezes one shoulder gently. The others are staring at him with looks of mixed concern and exasperation, and he realizes (again belatedly) that he’s zoned out on them or something. Focusing is…it’s just so _hard_ right now. He feels like he wasted what little energy he had on speaking.  
  
“You really are out of it, aren’t you?” Lance says, looking sympathetic. Then he shakes his head. “I said, you _honestly_ think we’re gonna buy that Allura’s not allowed to help a friend when he’s sick, but _you’re_ allowed to _die_ for her and everyone else?”  
  
Shiro frowns, trying to follow the trail of logic. He thinks maybe there’s something to it, but something about it doesn’t feel _right._   
  
“Can’t take her quin…quint….” He frowns, tongue tied on the word. “Energy. Not right. Not for…me. Haven’t earned. Bad leader. Bad risk.”   
  
The others look stunned at that, and everyone seems to burst into speech at the same moment.   
  
“You’re not a bad leader, you’re incredible—“  
  
“—not your fault you just had a personality leak or whatever—“  
  
“—no way saving you is a _bad risk_ , it’s not even a risk in the first place—“  
  
“—if _you_ haven’t earned the right to get better after all you’ve done for the whole _universe_ then the universe is pretty much doomed, okay—“  
  
Shiro winces at the volume and drops his head back to Hunk’s shoulder, spent. Their voices hush abruptly, but Shiro feels like he can still hear what they’re saying. And they’re wrong, because he doesn’t deserve any of their praise or reassurances, not really.   
  
It’s not self-pity or a low moment emotionally, because he can barely feel those things right now. It’s just an objective observation: he’s been failing them for weeks as a leader figure and as a role model, even knowing his duties. He’s been unable to connect with all of them like he should, and finds the effort of doing so too monumental to be acceptable. He failed to lead them in battle and outside of it, and he’d made a poor decision when trying to handle this entire mess on his own. Now the burden is falling on their shoulders because he’s incapable of handling it and let it get this bad to begin with. Regardless of what the _cause_ is, the fact of the matter is it’s costing _them_ as a result. It makes him a bad fit for the role, and he shouldn’t be forcing Allura to pay the price with her quintessence, or forcing the paladins to pay with their worry.   
  
He’s not worth the risk. He’s not worth that kind of care, not when he can’t return it. It’s hard to think, and harder to feel, but that is the one absolutely bright and clear understanding that he has left.   
  
But he has no real way to communicate all his thoughts. Even if he could filter his understanding into audible words, he’s sure they won’t understand, not with the worried looks they’re giving him. So he just shakes his head weakly against Hunk’s shoulder, and repeats dully, “No.”  
  
They exchange looks with each other, and there’s that _concern_ again on all their faces. It frustrates him—he feels that little spark of emotion in the void in him. They shouldn’t be feeling that way about him. It’s not right.   
  
But after a moment Allura steps closer, crouching a little to meet Shiro at eye level. “I realize it must be difficult to focus right now,” she says, slowly and clearly, like she’s making it easy as possible for Shiro to follow her thoughts. She must know what she’s doing, because it works; her cultured, clear voice is easy to follow, and the words in it are easier to wrap his mind around.    
  
But there’s strength in her words too, steel under velvet, and it gives her words power. “But please understand, Shiro, that I do not consider this a risk. I am strong enough to survive the healing of an entire dying _planet_ , and considered that a worthwhile risk for an entire civilization I had never met. Healing a single individual will be a much simpler process by comparison. I do not need your protection in this. And I assure you, helping you is not only something I am fully capable of doing…but it is also my duty as the princess of Altea, and my honor as your friend.”  
  
Shiro blinks slowly at that.  
  
She sounds not just sincere, but absolutely confident in her words. She truly believes everything she’s saying. Shiro’s not sure _he_ does…nothing about it makes _sense_ …he hasn’t _earned_ the right to that level of trust or protection, not recently…but her conviction is so strong it’s hard to not try to take it seriously. Even when it’s undeserved.   
  
He shakes his head again, but more hesitantly, weaker this time, unsure. Confused.   
  
Allura’s expression remains calm and controlled. She’s every inch a leader at that moment, but her voice is softer this time, closer to a concerned friend. “Shiro. Please. You aren’t thinking clearly right now _because_ of this. We simply want to help you regain your health. To feel yourself again. There is no shame in letting us help you, and everyone here wants nothing more than for you to feel better.” The others lean around Allura and nod in agreement, offering tentative smiles and pleading looks, and Hunk’s arm around Shiro’s shoulder squeezes gently and reassuringly again.  
  
 _To feel yourself again…_  
  
It’s probably selfish of him, to ask so much of Allura, but after a moment Shiro finally nods. “Alright,” he agrees, voice so soft it’s barely audible.   
  
The way everyone’s faces light up in relief and hesitant hope should probably make him feel better. Seeing them happy always used to make him feel better. Now it just makes him feel cold inside, to think that he’s so weak and starved from his own mistakes he needs to take from any of them, and their reaction to his theft is _happiness._   
  
It doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t seem like the smart choice, still. But maybe he owes them, for making them deal with this, so he’ll go along with it.   
  
And god, he’s just so _hungry_ , so damn _tired_ , and he just…he just wants it to _stop_. Even if it’s awful and selfish and _takes_. Maybe that makes him a monster. He’s too worn down inside to dwell on it.  
  
They move to the bridge, at Allura’s counsel. Being nearer to the ship’s crystal will help concentrate her energies, she says, and allow her to transfer quintessence as safely as possible. It’s not too far a walk from the infirmary, but even so, Shiro’s not strong enough to make it on his own. Hunk continues to support him on his left side, natural arm over Hunk’s shoulder. Lance, the next tallest, takes his right side, with his prosthetic slung over Lance’s shoulders as well. They take it slow for his sake, but even so Shiro stumbles his entire way there, and he doesn’t remember most of the journey. When they finally settle him down in the black paladin’s chair it feels like an age has past.   
  
Lance remains awkwardly sitting sideways on the armrest of the chair under his arm even after they set him down, and Shiro blinks at the confused hum he makes. It isn’t until Pidge says coaxingly, “You gotta let go of his jacket, Shiro,” that he realizes his right hand has a solid fistful of Lance’s coat.   
  
He gives his hand a dazed look. He hadn’t meant to do that. Maybe he’d latched on too tightly when trying to keep his balance.   
  
Unfolding his metal fingers is a process in itself; his hand is so tightly attached and it’s a strain to undo it when he’s so tired. He ends up tearing a hole in the jacket despite his best efforts, and stares at the bit of fabric still caught in his fingers, then at the tear, aware on a distant level that this is a bad thing and his fault. He’s not supposed to hurt them with it. “Sorry,” he rasps, as he settles his metal arm on the newly vacated armrest and finally manages to relinquish the scrap of cloth. His metal fingers start _click-click-clicking_ almost immediately. He barely notices the sound anymore.   
  
“It’s fine, Shiro, really,” Lance assures hastily. When Shiro doesn’t take his eye off the tear, he turns sideways to hide it, and adds, “Just let Allura make you better, okay? And we’ll all be here when you’re done.”  
  
Something still doesn’t feel right about it, but the others are all around him now supportively and Allura is standing in front of him, and he loses focus on the thoughts. Allura closes her eyes, and nods a moment later, looking satisfied. “I can feel the crystal’s energy much better here. I will need time to concentrate, so please remain quiet. You may all stay, but no distractions.”   
  
Shiro thinks it’s a mark of how worried they all must be when they agree to remain perfectly silent without argument, even the normally fidgety paladins like Hunk and Lance. Most of them back up a few paces when Coran shoos them back, but none of them leave.   
  
Allura nods again, and turns to Shiro. “Please relax,” she says. “This should not hurt, but it may feel a little overwhelming at first. I promise I will do everything I can to help.”   
  
And Shiro…well, he can’t feel, exactly, but he trusts her on a deeper level than pure quintessence alone can account for. He still doesn’t feel he deserves her help, but he is confident she _does_ intend to do just that—help. He’s a little startled when she reaches for his head, but too tired to even jerk back reflexively, and a second later he calms when her fingers only gently brush at his temples. She closes her eyes a moment later, and…  
  
And nothing. At least not at first. Shiro guesses she’s concentrating, and he can feel the warmth of her hands on either side of his head, but it doesn’t seem like she’s doing anything. He can barely see the others over her shoulders, watching intently, but they’re not reacting to anything, so nothing must be happening.   
  
But after five minutes Allura lets out a soft gasp. It sounds…he’s not sure. Disgusted? Appalled? She doesn’t sound happy, whatever it is, but he’s not what could cause a reaction like that, unless she was able to see into him enough to realize he really _wasn’t_ worth all this risk and—  
  
—and his eyes widen when suddenly he can _feel_ it, the raw energy in the room, feel it so strongly he can almost _see_ it, sparks and swirls of smoky color overlapping his dulled gray vision. The paladins and Coran over Allura’s shoulder have their own _brightness_ to them, all strong but different, and Allura herself has a different kind of powerful _brightness_ altogether.   
  
But that’s not what startles him, and not what causes him to twitch reflexively in his seat, not what causes his metal fingers to increase their clicking tempo. The quintessence of the others might be bright and warm, but the crystal burns and blinds, even situated behind him like it is. It’s almost overwhelming, a powerful conduit of wild energy harnessed to give life to the Castle of Lions, energy that flickers constantly through more spectrums of colors than he can even _comprehend_ , and it feels so close. Shiro has no energy to protect himself against it. He’s sure it’s only Allura’s presence and her direct connection to him that keeps him from withering like a husk from its power. It’s so _strong._ So full of _life._ So overwhelming.  
  
And yet he _yearns_ for it.   
  
It’s like struggling for weeks, dying of thirst in the desert, only to come across a roaring river. He knows it’s just as dangerous, he knows he should be careful. He _knows_ that throwing himself into the current and drowning for want of a drink is risky. But he’s desperate enough from the thirst to want to try it anyway. At least he’ll be sated when he dies.  
  
So all that power is overwhelming, but he strains for it anyway, starving and desperate and in awe. Allura holds him back, both physically and magically, gentle but firm. He finds himself trembling, feeling weaker and sicker now in the presence of the one thing he needs so badly that is _just_ out of reach. And yet he throws himself mentally at her restraints, clawing at them wildly, hurling himself at them again over and over until his mind feels like it’s bruised and cracking from the struggle, and he can’t seem to stop himself. He needs it. He _needs_ it. He needs to _live._ It’s so much it will burn him alive inside, but at least he’ll be _alive_ for just a moment. He’s distantly aware of a cracking noise as something metal by his side snaps, and his wide open eyes are vaguely aware of the concerned and anxious looks of his team mates, but he can’t bring himself to register any of it in the presence of that much energy when he’s so empty.   
  
But he doesn’t feel empty for long. Allura holds him back from reaching for that raw, primal power himself. But she does draw from it on her own, a tiny swirling thread of smoky energy constantly flicking through thousands of colors from that single overwhelming force. She pulls it in and draws it through herself, and it’s as though it feels a little different when it’s done, less _burning_ , less _bright_ , a single, solid violet, but no less strong. And it’s _this_ energy that she gives to him, a gentle trickle of quintessence that gradually takes away that awful feeling of starvation and emptiness without drowning him in it. She seems _less_ bright for it the longer she works, but that doesn’t seem to slow her any.  
  
He’s not sure how long it takes. He feels like he’s in two places at once, and it’s difficult to measure any passage of time as a result. But it _feels_ like an age before Allura finally takes her fingers away from his temples. Shiro slumps bonelessly in the chair the moment she breaks contact. He hadn’t even realized he could physically sink any farther.   
  
Allura steps back, stumbling slightly. Coran catches her carefully under one arm to support her, and says worriedly, “Princess?”  
  
“I’m fine,” she says. “Tired and…perhaps a little weak. That was…more difficult than expected. I hadn’t anticipated that level of damage, even knowing the readings…or the need to translate mine and the crystal’s quintessence to something a human could handle. It was…it was a bit taxing. But I will be fine after a few days’ rest. Shiro? How are you feeling?”  
  
How is he feeling? He feels…he feels _alive_ again.  
  
Shiro blinks at his teammates as they push forward again, anxiously awaiting his answer. He feels grateful at their worry, and touched at how much they clearly care, but also a little embarrassed over so much attention over his wellbeing. He feels exhausted, but in a good way, not the way that’s been plaguing him for weeks, always hovering but never disappearing even when he rests. His head feels clear, his thoughts running smoothly without interference or confusion. He feels interested in the world again, cares about what happens in it, wants to do what he can for it. He feels confidence and control and calm again. Even his world is brighter, and color has bled back into his vision; nothing feels dull and distant anymore. He feels _full_ , in a way he hasn’t felt for _weeks._   
  
“Better,” Shiro answers truthfully, mindful of each one watching him so carefully. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, relishing in the way the back of his mind is blissfully empty, not tormented by desperate and confusing starved sensations. When he opens his eyes again, he offers them a tired smile. “Much, much better. Better than I have been in a long time. Thank you, Allura. I know that wasn’t easy…I appreciate the effort that took you.”   
  
She looks tired, but she smiles. “Not at all. I am merely glad I was able to help at all.”   
  
The paladins surge forward, looking relieved and excited. Lance and Hunk are already chattering excitedly, Pidge is grinning widely, and even Keith offers a soft smirk that’s more smile. Their combined enthusiasm (and the volume to match) isn’t nearly as overwhelming and exhausting as Shiro remembers it being a mere hour or two ago, and that in and of itself is a relief.   
  
“You had us worried,” Keith says, shaking his head. “We’ve never seen you like that before.”  
  
“It was a little scary,” Hunk admits. “I’m just glad you’re okay again.”  
  
“But don’t pull something like that again!” Pidge adds with a scowl, and a punch to Shiro’s natural shoulder that he can tell has been pulled slightly. He must still look a wreck. “If you’re hurting that bad you need to _tell us_ so we can help, okay?” Lance nods in agreement over her shoulder, attempting to look stern but failing miserably when he’s still broadcasting his relief so strongly.  
  
“Sorry,” Shiro says, barely restraining a wince. He hadn’t meant to worry them so badly. They shouldn’t have had to be so concerned over him, not when he’s supposed to protect _them_. He’d held back speaking at all to _not_ worry them, because they didn’t deserve his problems on top of theirs. But it had spiraled somehow, and by the time he’d figured out something was really _wrong_ it had been too late for him to act on it. “I didn’t mean for it to get so out of line. I’m sorry I scared you all.”   
  
They look suspicious, and probably have a right to be. He hadn’t promised to not do it again, after all—he can’t, not when he needs to hold it together for their sake no matter the cost.   
  
“At least take it easy for a few days?” Hunk eventually says, voice questioning.   
  
“He’ll certainly need to,” Coran interjects with a stern nod. He’s still supporting Allura, who is leaning carefully on one arm. “The _both_ of you will,” he adds, giving Allura a look. “Performing a rejuvenation ceremony, even on this small scale, is no easy feat. And Shiro, you may be topped up on quintessence again, but your body still needs to catch up. It’ll be weak for a few days, not unlike after being sick. Rest, eat well, take it easy, and _no_ training until I give the all clear.”   
  
Shiro winces at that—it’s rare for Coran to outright give orders, much less ones that are so restrictive to the paladins. He wants to argue, but the others absolutely look like they’re ready to help enforce Coran’s rules, judging from their stern expressions and the way they exchange knowing looks with each other.   
  
So he sighs. “Fine, then.” And when they still look unconvinced, he tries to raise his hands in a placating gesture of ‘I surrender.’ That’s when he realizes that he _does_ still feel kitten-weak physically, like after getting over the worst symptoms of the flu but still being too worn and shaky to really feel _okay_ just yet. That’s also when he discovers his right arm doesn’t move at all—because his fingers are dug so deeply into the armrest of the black paladin’s chair they’ve cracked the metal plating and sunk into the interior.   
  
The others notice his bewildered stare, and several wince. “You looked really shaken when that happened,” Keith offers after a moment, hesitant. “Allura was still doing the ceremony. Guess you didn’t notice.”  
  
“No,” Shiro says after a moment. “Sorry, Coran. That’s probably more repair work for you…”  
  
“Think nothing of it,” Coran says immediately, seemingly unbothered. “A broken armrest is a small price to pay for a paladin’s life. Off to bed with you, now. You’re more tired than you realize.”  
  
Bed actually sounds nice, now that he thinks about it. Which is weird, because it’s not usually a thing Shiro looks forward to, but this will be _real_ rest this time. He hasn’t had that in weeks. He carefully pries his metal fingers out of the armrest, a little surprised at how deep he’s managed to dig them in reflexively. Like everything else since his re-infusion, the arm is much easier to control now, smoother and reactive without requiring conscious focus to use it. He flexes his fingers once or twice when he frees it, and stares at his metal palm bemusedly for a moment before dropping his hand to his side.  
  
Hunk helps him get to his feet, but once he’s up Shiro’s able to walk under his own power again—definitely a relief. The others look like they want to follow, but Keith gestures for them to stay back with a shake of his head, and Shiro is grateful for that. He’s touched by their concern, but after the past week he really wants to regain at least a little independence. He makes for his bunk without any urging, and even politely ignores the mice trailing him through the pipes, clearly charged with making sure he actually gets there.   
  
His bunk has never felt so comfortable, and Shiro can feel himself slipping towards sleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, a true rarity for him even on good days. He feels better, relaxed, relieved…but there’s a tiny seed of doubt just in the back of his head, something uneasy buried under all the exhaustion. Something that hints that maybe things are still _not right_ , something that draws up uncomfortable flashes of feeling and sensations—torn fabric, sharp clicks, crumpled metal, a feeling of _badness._ But he’s too tired to fixate on it, and his exhaustion sweeps him away into the first _real_ sleep he’s had in weeks.   
  
When he wakes in the morning, he’s forgotten the little seed completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then there were 11 chapters of fluff—
> 
> Hah! Who am I kidding? Next chapter things get crazier.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *medicinal drug commercial voice*   
> Parasite Knight should not be consumed after reading Beast You've Made Of Me. Reading Parasite Knight after BYMOM can result in side effects like uncontrollable sobbing, too many Feels, reader stress, difficulties waiting for the next chapter, and extreme paranoia for one Takashi Shirogane. If you experience any of these side effects lasting longer than four hours, consult your local fluff writer immediately. 
> 
> Parasite Knight should not be consumed before Beast You've Made Of Me because holy crap why are you even still here GO READ IT IT'S GREAT. 
> 
> (But srsly like don't double-shot this?)

* * *

 

"It takes a lot of understanding, time and trust to gain a close friendship with someone. As I approach a time of my life of complete uncertainty, my friends are my most precious asset."  
~Erynn Miller

* * *

  
Coran’s not wrong, and Shiro sleeps like the dead for most of the next day, catching up on what’s probably weeks of sleep debt that his body desperately craves. Shiro is glad at least that his mind has apparently decided to bypass the ‘dream’ stage and go straight for the deepest level of sleep. He knows it won’t last, but it feels more restful this way, at least.  
  
But after that, he feels much better. He actually enjoys the last half of the enforced vacation, and this time actually looks forward to outings to the lake planet-side, or to enjoy time with the rest of the paladins. He engages in the ridiculous conversations, sometimes as a mediator and sometimes as a participant. He goes on a flight with the Black Lion, just for the sake of flying, and enjoys the thrill of soaring through the air and the way he can feel her presence again. And when they take off three days later and return to their jobs as Defenders of the Universe, he returns to his duties as leader, and revels in his ability to make even basic decisions like what training exercises they’ll be doing on any given day.   
  
They mostly take it easy for his sake, at least at first. Shiro finds it a little frustrating to be coddled like this, but he can tell they’d been scared for him, and tries not to hold it against them. The first training session they have together they’re clearly all nervous and stick closer to him more than is probably necessary, but Shiro tries to take it in stride. It helps that he’s thinking clearly again about how to actually fight, and he works with them in unison. They try to discuss what might have caused his sudden quintessence deficiency, but they always do it in hushed voices, like they’re concerned about bringing up the topic around him.   
  
Truthfully, Shiro has no idea _what_ happened to cause him to drastically lose so much energy. It’s obviously not something he’s dealt with since becoming a paladin until very, very recently. He catches a few of them giving his prosthetic suspicious looks, but Shiro isn’t entirely sure that makes sense. He’s had it for months, and while it has caused him plenty of other problems it’s never done anything like that before. If it was the cause, why wouldn’t it have done something suspicious ever since escaping the Galra?   
  
If he has to guess, he suspects it has something to do with his fight against Haggar on Zarkon’s ship, or the time he was split from the others; the symptoms didn’t start showing up until after that battle, and after he rejoined with the rest of the team. The gash she’d given him to his side had taken months to heal, and had been oddly resistant to the cryo-pods, cursed with dark magics. Shiro wouldn’t be surprised if there had been additional side effects—that was simply how Haggar _worked_. When he mentions this, they hesitantly agree there’s some logic to that, at least, although no one is happy with the prospect that Haggar might have siphoned his quintessence somehow.    
  
But he feels fine now. He feels like himself again. He can think clearly and actually feel and he doesn’t feel empty anymore. They go on their first mission since Hilrusk, a stealth mission to steal more data from a Galra base, and he’s able to direct his paladins clearly and provide assistance to Pidge for hacking by powering and interfacing with Galra tech. It’s the first sign of success they’ve all had in days, they escape without even being discovered, and everyone is feeling and acting much better for the first time in days.   
  
Then Shiro wakes up the next morning after the mission, and he feels tired.   
  
It’s just a tiny thing. He almost misses it, just like the first time. But over the span of a single day it gets significantly worse, and that not-quite-hunger is back after only a few hours. Not as intense as a few days ago, but there in the back of his head, persistently gnawing at his thoughts and reminding him that he _needs_ something, that he’s _lacking._ By the end of the day his thoughts are starting to feel sluggish again, and he can’t bring himself to really care about what that means.   
  
He should be alarmed. He isn’t.   
  
At dinner, he has trouble following the paladins’ conversations. They’re loud and energetic and enthusiastic and it feels like too much to focus on. He eats his bowl of food goo mechanically, with disinterest, spooning up tiny bites with his left hand. His right sits on the table, and as the meal goes on and Shiro finds it harder and harder to deal with so much _life_ going on around him, it starts _click-click-clicking_ again, rapid and insistent.   
  
Shiro doesn’t even notice it until the others stop their conversation and stare at him. That’s when he realizes he hasn’t done the clicking thing for days either, not since the re-infusion.   
  
He’s pretty sure that’s a bad sign. The others seem to think it too, because after a moment Hunk asks, “You okay, Shiro?”  
  
He should say yes. He’s fine. He’s not supposed to worry them over things like this. He can’t be bothered to do so anyway. He’s too tired to. He can’t interrupt their fun, not when it’s been a while since they’ve been able to joke around like this. He’s not supposed to be a bad leader.   
  
But he remembers Pidge’s words too. _If you’re hurting that bad you need to tell us so we can help, okay?_ And he remembers his own realization that he should have said something. That’s more distant—he remembers he felt things, regret, frustration, disappointment in himself, but it’s hard to feel them now. But he has that memory as a reference. He knows it’s something he’s supposed to do. And what had Allura said? This affects the way he thinks. He can’t let that happen. He needs to think the way he’s supposed to. He’s pretty sure.   
  
(He’s not sure at all, but that’s the logic he’s going to go with. He’s too tired to think of anything else).  
  
So after a very long moment, he rasps, “I think it’s happening again.”  
  
He doesn’t think he’s seen any of them move this fast in a long time. All of them are out of their seats in seconds, dishes abandoned, surging around the table towards him with looks of dismay or worry on their faces. He should feel bad about that, but he can’t bring himself to. The way they crowd him should make him nervous, but he feels only a minor spark of anxiety.   
  
The way they’re all talking at once, though, _that_ makes him wince. It’s too much information, and he can’t process it all. There’s a loud shushing noise a moment later, and they all fall quiet. Then a new voice—Keith, this time, he thinks—says, “Shiro, we’re gonna move you to the lounge, okay? It’s not too far and you’ll be more comfortable there. Then Coran and Allura can take a look at you again.”  
  
Shiro blinks at that, but after a moment he nods. That sounds fair, and he feels too out of it to really argue with them.  
  
Hunk helps him move the short distance from the dining hall to the lounge, with Shiro’s natural arm over his shoulders like before. Shiro can hear the others trailing behind them, muttering amongst themselves, but he can’t really make out the words. He doesn’t pay much attention to his surroundings until Hunk is settling him down on one of the comfortable couches, in one of the corner seats so he has enough support to keep him upright. Shiro allows himself to be placed there, and slides back until the cushions take his full weight. He lets out an exhausted sigh without even thinking about it, and tips his head back to rest against the cushions as well. But even with the couch taking his full weight and supporting him completely he still feels so _heavy._ So tired. So drained.   
  
Distantly, he realizes whatever is happening is happening faster now. That’s something that should scare the hell out of him, but he can barely wrap his head around the concept, much less the appropriate reaction.  
  
He twitches only slightly when he suddenly feels a hand on his forehead, and blinks blearily as Allura comes into focus. She smiles encouragingly at him—it looks weak—before closing her eyes and focusing. Shiro blinks again, and flicks his gaze weakly around her to either side, only to spot the rest of the team hovering nervously. Worry is etched on all their faces.   
  
He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have kept his damn mouth shut. He should have gone to the training deck and beat the hell out of a Gladiator bot until he felt better. He shouldn’t be causing things like this to happen.  
  
“His quintessence really is drained again,” Allura says, sounding stunned, after five minutes of anxiety-charged silence. Her eyes open for a moment, and she glances over her shoulder at the others. “He’s not quite as empty as before, but still too low to be healthy. This is unprecedented. It hasn’t even been a full week since I performed the ceremony.”   
  
“There has to be a _reason_ for it,” Pidge says insistently. “You said it yourself, quintessence doesn’t just disappear. It has to be going _somewhere_.”  
  
“He doesn't have an energy leak or something, does he?” Lance asks. “Is that a thing?”  
  
Coran shakes his head, and even in Shiro’s distant state he can tell Coran’s expression is his _humans are so ignorant of so many basic things_ look. “Quintessence doesn’t _leak_ ,” the adviser says. “There isn’t an energy hole that needs to be plugged up somewhere. It’s not as simple as that.”  
  
“Then it’s going somewhere, like Pidge said,” Hunk says. “Can you find out where?”  
  
“I can try watching the energy patterns,” Allura says after a moment. “Maybe I can find where the flow of quintessence is problematic…” She closes her eyes again, and her palm feels warm against Shiro’s forehead. Everyone goes quiet to let her concentrate, and Shiro feels the quiet so strongly. He wants to just close his eyes and rest, even right there with everyone watching. But he can’t. No matter how tired he feels, he just can’t get to that point when he could fall asleep, and really _sleep._   
  
It doesn’t take Allura long before she finds something. Shiro can tell she’s not happy from what she discovers, based on the way her fingers twitch against his forehead, and the angry noise she makes in the back of her throat. “I didn’t think it possible for them to sink any lower,” she mutters, before taking her hand off of Shiro’s forehead—gently, despite her clear anger—and turning to the others. They wait anxiously for the verdict, and she says darkly, “the source of the energy drain is this prosthetic.”   
  
_“You will fight for us. You will kill for us, if need be. And it will absolutely be of your own volition. I will expect nothing less.”_  
  
Shiro jerks at the sound of the voice, his half lidded eyes widening. He glances around, but there’s no one there but the other paladins, and after a moment he swallows. The edge of panic he can still feel is so strong, almost too strong, for his current empty self. He shudders slightly, and his metal fingers begin tapping again, the clicking noise muted against the cloth of the couch’s armrest.   
  
The others don’t seem to notice—or if they do, they probably assume he’s reacting to Allura’s announcement. They look just as shocked and angry, and are talking loudly again. Shiro struggles to force down his too-strong nerves and focus on their words.   
  
“—make sense,” Pidge is saying. “Why would they create a weapon that can kill its own host like this? It’s not practical.”  
  
“Maybe it’s like a failsafe,” Hunk says, sounding uneasy. “Y’know, in case he turns on them…which he _did,_ kinda…so now it’s supposed to stop him from being a threat against them?”  
  
“But if that was the case they’d have activated it months ago, the moment they realized he was the black paladin now,” Pidge argues. “It’s the same reason we disregarded it as the problem in the _first_ place. If it’s draining Shiro now, why hasn’t it done it _before?_ This doesn’t make any sense.”  
  
“I know not the reason for the function,” Allura admits. “Or why it hasn’t acted before, or even how it works yet, exactly. All I can say for sure is that the prosthetic appears to be draining a large amount of his quintessence on a consistent basis. It’s actively siphoning it away without returning it even now.”  
  
 _“Death threats? You think_ death threats _will make me beg to let me serve you? I risk death in the arena every day already. You can’t scare me with that. I refuse.”_  
  
 _“You may refuse all you like, Champion, but I have found the one thing in the universe that can be absolutely counted on is that everything that exists desires to survive. Even you. Perhaps especially you.”_  
  
Shiro jerks again. Memory. Or some part of it. It must be. He can’t quite understand it, but it fills him with a sense of dread not even his quintessence-dulled mind can evade. He starts shaking again, harder this time, and finds his breath becoming more ragged, his tapping more insistent.  
  
He feels a warm hand on his left shoulder, one that squeezes gently, supportively. Lance is standing behind him, and offers him an encouraging smile that does very little to mask his obvious worry. On his other side, Keith steps forward towards the others and scowls as he says, “Who cares why or whether or not it makes sense! How do we _fix_ it? He needs help, not a scientific discussion.”  
  
Tension feels thick in the air for a moment as Pidge and Allura frown at Keith for his outburst. Shiro doesn’t like it. He can’t feel _connected_ to them, but he knows objectively he can’t be responsible for the crew falling apart, and they’re so angry…  
  
But Lance squeezes his shoulder again reassuringly, and Pidge's and Allura’s expressions both soften when they look at Shiro. After a moment, Pidge says, “Understanding the ‘why’ might be part of figuring out how to fix him, but…I guess we can start by cracking open the prosthetic itself and seeing if we can find the source of the drain. Maybe we can figure out a way to disconnect it, or something.”  
  
Hunk nods in agreement. “I can help with that.”  
  
“As can I,” Coran adds, unusually solemn.   
  
“Shiro? You okay with that?” Keith asks, circling around to his other side.   
  
Shiro frowns at the question. That means he has to answer something, and it’s…hard. Getting his mind to work is hard. _Everything_ is difficult. But they wait patiently, and he can feel Lance’s thumb rubbing gently against his shoulder where it still rests reassuringly, and a little of the dread slips away.   
  
He’s not sure what to say, though. He doesn’t…he doesn’t like the thought of people messing around with his prosthetic. Poking around inside, trying to figure him out. Taking him apart, rebuilding him as they see fit. Holding him down, ignoring his pleas, taking his arm and his voice and his life and his choices and—  
  
“Shiro. Breathe.”   
  
He blinks. At some point Keith has gone from his side to kneeling in front of him, and Lance’s hand has transferred from his shoulder to his own natural hand, thumb running along its back reassuringly. The others look worried, but don’t crowd him.   
  
“Breathe,” Keith repeats. He looks…worried. Very worried. Shiro can tell even in his dulled state, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Keith look this worried before. It should be frightening. _That_ part doesn’t scare him as much—he can’t feel it—but the dread from the memories, that he feels. Why is this happening _now_ , on top of everything else?   
  
“We’re not gonna hurt you, Shiro,” Pidge says, once he takes Keith’s suggestion and focuses on breathing for a bit. “I promise. We just want to find out what the Galra did that’s making you sick, so we can help you get better. Okay?”  
  
“We can make you as comfortable as possible,” Hunk adds reassuringly. “And if you need a break we can take one. And we’re not gonna force you if can’t do it, but… _please_ let us help you?”   
  
His eyes flick to Shiro’s right arm at the end. Shiro realizes belatedly he’s curled it across his stomach almost protectively, as close as he can, the hand wrapped around his side. Now that his attention is drawn to it, he’s shocked that he didn’t notice; he can feel his metal fingers _tap-tap-tapping_ insistently against his ribs, weak but ever constant.   
  
They don’t want to hurt him. They’re not like the Galra. They just want to help him get better. That’s what they said last time—Allura had said it then, right?—but they’d done just that. They’re his team, and he should trust them. It’s what he would do _before_ , when he didn’t feel like _this_ , right? It’s so hard to think, but he’s pretty sure that’s right.   
  
He’s a terrible excuse for a leader, and probably doesn’t deserve this much attention. He’s failing again, couldn’t even put their help from last time to good use, and now he’s being weak, sick, useless. But they want to help him. He’s reasonably sure they’re safe.   
  
“Okay,” he rasps after a moment. He feels exhausted just from the simple action of agreeing, and slumps further, feeling weak. He hopes he’s made the right choice. He can’t really tell; choice is difficult, all he can feel is that lingering sense of dread, and that ever increasing _hunger._   
  
But Lance squeezes his hand reassuringly, and the rest of the team offers relieved, weak smiles, like they’re happy with his answer. That probably counts for something, he thinks. Maybe. Hard to tell.  
  
They disperse in a blur of motion after that. Keith stays with him, a steady and reliable presence, while the rest of the team disappear to…he’s not sure, just that they’re gone. Keith tells him to relax and that they’ll be back soon. He says more, but Shiro doesn’t catch most of it. It’s too many words, too much information, too much to focus on. He stays still, and tries to focus on ignoring the fatigue that he can’t fix with sleep, and the hunger he can’t fix with food. Tries to ignore the way his mind drifts towards a good fight on the training deck until he’s so worn out rest is unavoidable.   
  
It doesn’t work very well.  
  
Shiro’s not sure how long it is before they start coming back, but when they do, it’s with supplies of some kind. Hunk and Pidge both have boxes of tools. Allura follows them with a computer, and some kind of table under one arm that she seems to carry effortlessly. Coran returns from the opposite direction with what looks like some kind of large cot, and Lance trails after him with armfuls of blankets. Even the mice are helping, managing to carry a pillow between the four of them.   
  
In a surprisingly short amount of time they have a comfortable-looking little workspace set up, right there in the lounge. The cot is surprisingly large and, when covered by the multitudes of blankets, looks soft and comfortable. The table is set up along the right side of the cot at the same height, and the tools and computer are scattered around it. Coran disappears and returns with several low stools, which are deposited around the table as well.   
  
“Whenever you’re ready, Shiro,” Pidge says, voice carefully calm.  
  
Is he ready? He’s not sure. He’s not sure he ever can be for something like this, even when his mind is whole, and _now_ …he shivers slightly.   
  
But they’re all patient and reassuring, and no one rushes him or gets angry. It takes him so long to think of anything, and not being pressured is…is nice. He would appreciate it, if he could feel appreciation. And…and the cot doesn’t look anything like a cold, hard examination table; it looks comfortable and warm and safe. He could take a nap on it, if his body and mind were cooperating right now. It can’t be that bad, right?   
  
“Okay,” he says. It’s about all he can manage, but they get it.  
  
Keith helps him stand, and he and Lance help him stumble the five steps to the cot. They help him ease on to it and lay back, too, with Keith easing his head back carefully and Lance pitching his feet up. It would be embarrassing how much like an invalid he feels at the moment, if he wasn’t too tired to care. Even in his dulled state he still feels like this much fuss over him isn’t deserved, not when he can’t fulfill his duties like this.   
  
But mostly he’s preoccupied with the feeling of being surrounded and staring up at so many faces surrounding him while so helpless. It’s not the same, he knows this—he feels comfortable, the cot really _is_ soft and relaxing, there’s no straps restraining him or bright lights in his face—but he can feel that edge of nervousness his quintessence-drained mind can’t seem to hold back, and that voice—  
  
 _“—but I have found the one thing in the universe that can be absolutely counted on is that everything that exists desires to survive—”_  
  
He breathes in sharply through his nose, glances around for her nervously. That voice shouldn’t be _here,_ but it feels too close to this situation, too familiar—  
  
“Easy, Shiro, it’s okay—“  
  
“Relax, man, it’s just us, nobody’s here to hurt you—“  
  
“Breathe, Shiro. Like before.”  
  
Right. Right. _That’s_ not…this isn’t…these are friends. These are _friends_. It’s okay. It’s so hard to remember that with his thoughts so muddled, but it’s _okay._ He’s okay.   
  
The room swims back into focus, and Shiro dazedly manages to fix his eyes on Coran, just in time to see the Altean say slowly, “I can offer a sedative, if that would be preferable…if you’re not comfortable, that is. It might be easier on you.”   
  
Shiro remembers that he’s not a fan of being put under. He doesn’t like the lack of control it gives him. How vulnerable it makes him. He remembers that much. But…he’s already weak and vulnerable anyway, right? He can’t get worse, right? And god, he’s so _tired_ …maybe drugs will help. Better than a fight, even. It’s a mark of just how bad he must be when he nods his agreement, and even dulled as he is he can tell the others know it, too, from their surprised looks.  
  
Coran gives him the sedative. Unfortunately, it does nothing. Much like how sleep eludes him and does nothing when he does find it, the most the drug does is make him a little drowsier. It doesn’t make him blissfully unaware of the situation he’s in. Neither does the spell Allura uses that she supposedly learned from her father. Someone suggests a stronger dose of the sedative, but Coran shakes his head, explaining that he’s afraid to give more. “He’s not reacting properly. I don’t want to make him sick or injured by giving him more than he can handle.”   
  
They don’t look happy at this, but there’s nothing they can do. Lance bites his lip thoughtfully, and then abruptly snatches one of the stools on the right side of the cot and drags it around to the left, sitting down at Shiro’s side. “I,” he announces, with a superior grin that looks a little forced, “am going to tell you about my first time in the flight simulator, and how _awesome_ I was.”  
  
Keith snorts, and Hunk and Pidge exchange incredulous looks. Shiro blinks in confusion, and stares at Lance, which is about all he can manage.   
  
“Yeah, so it was only my third day at the garrison, right, and we were just getting our little introductions to the simulators in our first class. I’m sure you know how Iverson is, always barking and yelling, I don’t think he has any other volume setting, honestly….”  
  
Shiro’s struggling to pay attention, and barely notices the odd jerking motion Lance makes with his head in the middle of the conversation. He tries to focus on the words, but it’s difficult; there’s so many, and Lance can ramble with the best of them. It’s certainly distracting though, and he almost doesn’t notice the gentle tug at his right arm as it’s rotated slightly.  
  
Almost, but not quite. He twitches slightly, and starts to turn his head the other way, to look at his right side and whatever is pulling at his arm. Lance puts a hand on the right side of his face and gently pulls his head back to look left again. “Hey, man, don’t worry about them. It’s just Hunk and Pidge and Coran and they’re doing boring science stuff anyway. We got more important things to talk about.”   
  
Hunk and Pidge and Coran…Shiro blinks, and realizes that at some point they’ve drifted out of his vision. They’re behind him now, he thinks. Working on his arm? He can sort of vaguely feel what’s left of his right arm stretched out perpendicular to his body, and thinks maybe they have the prosthetic laid out on the table they’ve put alongside the cot. But he doesn’t feel anything painful or unwanted, and Lance seems calm, and he’s still comfortable. It can’t be bad then. Right?   
  
He stops trying to turn his head to the right to see, and Lance smiles at him. “See, over here’s where the party’s at.”  
  
Shiro frowns, and struggles to think of what’s missing. After a moment he rasps, “Keith? Allura?”  
  
“I’m right here.” Shiro feels a hand rest on the back of his own, and spots Keith sitting farther down on the edge of the cot, patting his arm reassuringly. “Allura went to go move the ship somewhere safe. She’s okay too.”   
  
“Oh.” Right. That makes sense. Something he should’ve thought of. Another strike as a leader. “Okay.”  
  
“Right, so now that that’s settled, back to my story. Like I was saying, Iverson was in a real mood that day and he seemed to have it out for me, which _may_ or may not have been due to getting caught sneaking out the night before, but in my defense I just wanted to know the place now that I was staying there, right…”  
  
Shiro lets Lance’s voice wash over him. He has a hard time following the story, but the noise is comfortable without being overwhelming. It drowns out the hushed whispers behind him and the uncomfortable clinks of metal and sounds of tools, and he struggles to latch on to Lance’s voice and let it hold him steady. Keith helps, too, whether or not he realizes it. He can’t help but react to whatever Lance is saying, and Lance snipes back comically. And even if Shiro has trouble feeling connected to that camaraderie with his mind as low as it is, it’s familiar, and they feel _real_ and _alive_. It’s grounding, and he clings to it.   
  
Lance finishes one story (Shiro thinks) and starts on another, once again with regular interruptions from Keith. Shiro tries to listen to this one too, but finds it much harder to focus this time. He starts to drift, zoning in and out, sometimes able to focus on his surroundings, sometimes focusing on his own sluggish, weak thoughts, and sometimes completely blank. He feels so tired and he wants so badly to sleep, his exhaustion drags at him and he feels so heavy, but his mind only drifts; it won’t sink down far enough into rest. Something in him wants so badly to get up and _move_ —stillness is weakness and death, but in movement there’s a chance at _life_ —but he just doesn’t have the strength for it anymore.The hunger grows ravenous, and gradually it becomes the only thing he’s aware of at all. He only exists as an empty void and there’s nothing else to Shiro but that.  
  
“—ro? Shiro? Can you hear me?”  
  
He’s distantly aware of someone touching the side of his face. His eyes have been open the whole time, half lidded, but he blinks slowly back into focus and finds Keith staring at him. He and Lance must have switched places at some point. Shiro doesn’t remember. It also takes him a depressingly long time to realize that his color has bled out again; the vibrant red of Keith’s jacket is gone, and over his shoulder Lance’s wide, worried eyes aren’t blue anymore.   
  
Shiro blinks again, and even that motion is exhausting. Acknowledging Keith at all is something he just doesn’t have the strength for anymore. He’s pathetic, but he’s too tired to care.  
  
Keith frowns, and over his shoulder Lance looks up at whatever is behind Shiro. “Guys, please tell me you’ve found something. He’s really not looking good over here.”   
  
“Nothing yet,” someone—Pidge, Shiro thinks—says in frustration. “This Galra tech is way more complicated than anything I’ve managed to reverse-engineer so far, and it’s not like anything is labeled in here.”  
  
“We’re trying to figure out what pieces are connected to his nervous system first so we don’t hurt him by accident,” a deeper voice—Hunk—adds. “It’s…it’s slow going. Plus there’s other stuff in here that could be dangerous. Really dangerous.”  
  
“Not something you rush,” Pidge agrees. “Now define ‘not looking good.’ ”   
  
Shiro’s starting to drift out of the conversation again, slipping back into his own muddled thoughts despite Keith’s worried protest, when he feels a warm hand on his forehead gain. He can’t see whoever it is, but the fingers are thin and delicate. After a moment, he hears a soft hiss of alarm, and distantly realizes he recognizes Allura’s voice. But she’d been gone, hadn’t she? Keith said she was moving the ship. She only just left…right? Or…how long as it been…?  
  
“He’s worse than before,” Allura says. She sounds so concerned, and Shiro can’t fathom why. The hand disappears from his forehead after a moment. “I cannot believe how much quintessence this… _thing_ has managed to take from him in so short a timespan. It’s like it’s getting faster the worse it makes him.”   
  
“I just wish we knew _why_ ,” Pidge says from behind him. He tries to turn his head to see her, to understand why she sounds so angry, so frustrated. But it’s such a struggle for him to lift it, and Keith doesn’t let him turn it very far anyway, keeping one palm gently against the right side of his head. Keith looks over Shiro’s shoulder with something bordering on concern and anxiousness on his face.   
  
“I don’t know,” Allura says. “But at this rate he is going to need another re-infusion before we uncover the answers in this technology. I should perform one soon, but I am…concerned by his reaction last time. His response to the crystal was very extreme—it was difficult to restrain him from it, and he can’t handle that much raw energy directly. I’m afraid he may hurt himself accidentally.”  
  
“You can’t do so again regardless, Princess.” Coran’s voice is firm. “That ceremony was never intended to be completed repeatedly and rapidly. Even sacred Alteans would rotate performing the rites if multiple crystals were required from a Balmera, and those ceremonies were smaller scale. You’ve barely recovered from the last one, and even if you _think_ you’re fine, you could push yourself too far performing another so soon.”  
  
“I can’t leave him like this, Coran,” Allura insists.  
  
“I understand, Princess, and we will find a way to help him, but you’ll be no help to anyone if you put yourself in a sickly state like this, either.”   
  
Shiro is only catching maybe a quarter of the discussion, if he’s being generous to himself…but he does catch the general idea. “No,” he slurs thickly. The one word is so difficult, and so soft, and so _weak._ But it’s important to him all the same. “Don’t risk…s-stay…safe…” He tries to rise—he’s not worth such a sacrifice, he’ll get better if he just fights harder—but his body is so heavy and too weak to do more than shift fitfully.  
  
“Woah, easy there.” It’s Hunk’s hand on his head this time, reassuring and warm as it brushes his bangs back and rests against his forehead. “Calm down, Shiro. It’s okay. We’re all safe, promise.”   
  
Shiro can’t tell if he’s lying by voice alone, and Hunk is above him, out of sight. Shiro does catch Lance’s worried look behind him, though, and distantly he thinks he hears a curious, insistent metal _tap-tap-tap_ as Pidge curses in surprise.   
  
Shiro eventually settles—more out of fatigue than because he’s told to—but Hunk’s hand remains on his forehead, continually brushing his hair back in soothing, repetitive motions. Pidge’s cursing behind him subsides, and after a moment she adds, “We can’t afford to have you down for a couple days anyway, Allura, and you were pretty shaky the last time you did the re-infusing thing. That was fine when we though this was a one-time thing, but now that we know it’s going to be continual until we find the problem in this arm, we need you on-hand to monitor his quintessence levels. You’re the best one for that job.”   
  
“So, what, are you saying we just do _nothing?_ ” Keith asks. He sounds angry. Even as dull as his mind is at the moment, Shiro can see the warning spark in his eyes, and even though Keith is sitting, his whole body looks tense and ready to pounce. “The longer this goes on the faster he gets drained. He doesn’t have _time_ for you to guys to try and find answers at this rate.”   
  
“Yeah,” Lance agrees, in a rare show of solidarity with Keith that might have been stunning if Shiro was more aware. “We can’t just leave him starving or empty or whatever because we can’t do a re-transfusion thing!”  
  
“Re-infusion,” both Alteans correct at the same time.  
  
“Whatever,” Lance grouses. “You get what I—“  
  
“Lance,” Pidge says suddenly, a low, excitable hiss, “Say that again?”  
  
Lance blinks in confusion, raises an eyebrow, and says hesitantly, “We…can’t just leave him empty because we can’t do a re-transfusion?”  
  
“A _transfusion,_ ” Pidge says, sounding more energetic than Shiro thinks she’s been in a while. He hears a click of metal, and Pidge circles into his field of vision, all grey tones but bright with sudden enthusiasm. “What if we treat this like blood loss? Can we do a transfusion then, Allura?”  
  
“I don’t understand what you mean,” Allura says in confusion. “A transfusion? What has that to do with blood?”  
  
“On Earth, if people are sick or lost a lot of blood in an accident or something, other people can donate their own blood to them,” Pidge says. “Even a small donation can go a long way to saving somebody’s life, and whoever is donating might be a little dizzy or weak but they aren’t really in danger.”  
  
There’s a moment of silence. Shiro can’t see either of the Alteans’ faces to see their reaction, but after a moment Coran says with in a tone of mixed incredulity and exasperation, “That’s…certainly a noble donation, I suppose.” And then lower, so softly Shiro almost doesn’t hear it at all, “Though I’m starting to see why you were all impressed with the cryo-pods, with medical practices like that…”  
  
“Humans are backwards, we get it,” Pidge says impatiently. “Look, can we apply the same practice here? Can one of us, like…donate our quintessence to Shiro? Just to help keep him above water until we can figure out what the technical issues in this arm are?”  
  
Shiro’s starting to drift from the conversation again, but that sends such a spike of alarm through him that even his dulled emotions can’t deflect it. He jerks his head weakly upwards, dislodging Hunk’s attempts to keep stroking his bangs back, and struggles hard to focus and listen.  
  
“With blood donations you need the right blood type though,” Hunk says. Shiro can _hear_ the frown in his voice. “And Allura said the quintessence for each of us has to be different, because different Lions picked us, right? And last time she did the infusion thingy she said she had to adjust her own quintessence so Shiro could handle it. If we _did_ give him some of our quintessence, wouldn’t that hurt him?”  
  
“Not necessarily,” Allura says, and Shiro swears he can hear her frowning too. “It is… _highly_ unconventional, to be fair. I do not believe it would break any code of the paladins as long as the quintessence was gifted willingly rather than forcibly taken, though. And it may feel strange to have an unmatched quintessence, but I do not believe it would injure him. The adjustments that I made were to ensure the quintessence I gifted was something a human body could handle. Alteans naturally generate very… _condensed_ quintessence, and the crystal’s quintessence is…I learned last time that it is _very_ overwhelming to humans. We are a people very attuned with energy, so we are capable of handling it, but Shiro was not. But your own quintessence is already human.”   
  
“So we _could_ donate?” Pidge asks. She looks more excited than before, like she’s stumbled upon a solution to a puzzle. “How would we give it to him?”  
  
“I would assist with that,” Allura says. Before Coran can protest, she adds, “I would merely be a conduit, redirecting the location of the quintessence, provided it is _willingly_ given. It will cost very little of my own energy and shouldn’t tire me for more than an hour or two. Theoretically.”  
  
Shiro’s alarm spikes higher. This doesn’t sound good. This sounds _dangerous_. It sounds _wrong_. He has no right to put _any_ of them in the same situation as himself. No right to take their energy. Steal their _life_. He doesn’t deserve it. A leader would _never_ demand those kinds of sacrifices from his men, he’s sure. It’s inexcusable.   
  
“What about the drain?” Hunk asks. He doesn’t sound like he’s objecting—he _should_ be but isn’t—but more like he’s just trying to work out the details. “Wouldn’t that just leave whoever donates in the same situation?”  
  
“I can ensure that a safe amount is transferred,” Allura says, sounding more confident about the idea, more determined. “I think. Enough to leave the donator feeling the early symptoms Shiro was showing, but not enough to put them in…in _this_ state.” Shiro can almost feel all of their eyes on him. “And whoever donates _will_ have their quintessence renew itself naturally over time, since they aren’t being drained by an external source. It may take a little time, but they will naturally heal of it.”  
  
“Just like a blood donation,” Pidge says. “We take it easy and drink some space juice and cookies and take a nap for a day or two, and Shiro gets to live another couple days. It’s worth it.”   
  
_It isn’t,_ Shiro wants to scream, _it’s not a fair trade, it’s not right, I don’t have that right to take it, this isn’t the fight I want, I’m not the leader any of you deserve, I don’t even have those qualities anymore—_  
  
But it’s hard to think, and he can’t quite get the words out. He does, however, twist fitfully again, trying to push himself up. It takes every bit of his concentration and what little determination he has left that hasn’t been consumed by the void. It’s not enough, and he barely raises himself at all before he flops back to the blankets. Someone puts a soothing hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently, but he can’t see who it is with the spots dancing across his vision from his failed attempt to sit up.  
  
“Okay,” Pidge says, “Let’s do this, then.”  
  
“Hold up there,” Lance interrupts. Shiro blinks the spots from his eyes dazedly, just in time to see Lance gently grab Pidge’s wrist and pull her away from Allura. “If anybody’s doing this first, it should be me or Keith.”  
  
“What?” Pidge looks and sounds indignant, and Shiro winces at the volume and the overwhelming _expression_. “I want to help him just as much as the rest of you, and it’s _my_ idea! I’m perfectly capable—“  
  
“I’m not saying you’re not,” Lance says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture, “But think about this for a second. We don’t know how this is gonna turn out for whoever donates first. What if whoever ends up all tired and passed out for a day or two, just like Shiro’s been? We can’t have you and Hunk down for two days _not_ figuring out what’s going on with Shiro’s arm. That kinda defeats the whole purpose of doing the donation to start, right? But if it comes to that me or Keith can be passed out for a couple days and it won’t matter too much.” He shrugs. “We’re kind of useless right now anyway.”  
  
Pidge looks like she wants to argue, but after a moment she sighs and nods. “Okay. You’re right. I’ll…I’ll make sure I use the time you guys buy to figure out some answers before Shiro’s in trouble again.”  
  
“I’ll do it,” Keith says, quiet but firm. There’s steel in his voice, and Lance only glances at his face for a second before he steps back with an _I surrender_ look and nods.   
  
_No. No. No, no, no, this can’t…this can’t happen, he can’t let it, he…it’s not_ right, _he can’t take Keith’s energy, Keith’s_ life, _he doesn’t deserve this…he can’t…no—_  
  
“So how do we do this?” Keith asks, glancing at Allura.   
  
_No—_  
  
“Come here next to me,” Allura says, as she steps to the left side of the cot and into Shiro’s view. “Give me your hand. Close your eyes, and concentrate. Think about yourself. Your energy. That force that lets you understand and communicate with the Red Lion. Envision it however you feel comfortable…like a river, or a fuel line, perhaps…and picture letting it flow to Shiro instead. You must make it clear that it’s willingly given of your own actions. Alteans do not _take_ , we give.”  
  
Keith nods as he offers Allura his right hand, and closes his eyes, squeezing them shut to concentrate. Shiro knows he struggles with mental exercises like this sometimes, and almost hopes he fails. It makes him a terrible person to think it of Keith, but that’s just another reason he doesn’t deserve any of this help. He’s an awful mentor that wants those he commands to fail. Doesn’t deserve the black paladin title. Doesn’t…deserve to be a paladin at all. Doesn’t…deserve…their help. Doesn’t…  
  
God, he’s so damn tired. He just wants all this confusion to _stop._   
  
Keith doesn’t fail, and Shiro can’t bring himself to be proud of him. Keith concentrates, and he nods to Allura when he’s ready. Allura reaches out to press her hand on Shiro’s forehead again, but before she can settle her hand firmly, he jerks his head away, dislodging it. “N-no…”  
  
Allura frowns. “Shiro, please—“  
  
 _“No…”_ It took him the last of his strength to even move his head, and his brain is swirling again in a dense and confusing mass of thoughts and images he can’t quite place. It’s so hard to think. He can feel himself sinking back into that emptiness, that void of nothing but starvation and exhaustion, with so little left to distract him. But he clings desperately, using the last edge of panic and disgust he has to make it just a little further. _“No._ Can’t. Won’t let you…”  
  
“Shiro—“ Allura tries to place her hand on his forehead again, but stops when he flinches away ever so slightly.  
  
 _“No.”_ His mind tries to sink deeper, and he becomes more insistent, desperate to make himself clear before he just _can’t_ anymore. “ ’S important to you, stop, I can’t take that—“  
  
 “Shiro,” and this time it’s Keith, looking deeply worried as he leans forward, “It’s fine, really, I want to do this—“  
  
 “I can’t,” Shiro rasps. Talking is so hard, but…why can’t they _understand?_ Why don’t they _get_ he doesn’t deserve this, that they can’t risk losing something so precious for _his_ sake? “That’s…that’s your _Lion_. That’s your _bond_ to her…I _can’t_ …I can’t steal that from you—“  
  
 “Shiro, I promise, it’s gonna be okay—“  
  
 “No—I can’t—I _won’t_ —“  
  
 “Shiro, you _need_ to let us help you,” Keith says, and there’s an edge of desperation in his voice Shiro doesn’t think he’s heard in a very long time. “If you don’t you could die, _please_ —“  
  
Shiro doesn’t think he’s ever seen Keith look that openly scared before, the expression blatant on his face. It cuts through his muddled thoughts like a knife, and he’s startled enough to hesitate. He feels someone wrap both hands around his left one, warm and reassuring, and another set of hands on his shoulders. He feels something light skitter across the pillow and curl up by his neck, or underneath his chin, soft and warm and fuzzy. There’s so many people around him, but it’s not…it’s not _frightening_ , not like _before._ They’re all there as support. Like family.   
  
The thought occurs to him, painfully late and bewildering, through his dulled, unsteady thoughts, that they are scared to death for him.   
  
He’s not sure… _why_ , exactly. It’s hard to think on it now and the last of his tiny panic-sparked adrenaline rush has faded. But they _are._ Despite all his faults and clear misgivings, despite being an objectively terrible black paladin that can’t manage to connect with or look out for his team, despite his _repeated_ mistakes, they are still worried sick about him. And he’s struggling to do the one thing he can think of to protect them from _himself,_ but…but if this is how they’re reacting…maybe that’s not the way?   
  
He hesitates, and falls still. When Allura tentatively reaches for his forehead he doesn’t try to pull away again. His fingers twitch nervously, but the hand holding his squeezes reassuringly, and he settles a little.  
  
“Relax, Shiro,” Allura says, voice gentle. “You should feel a little better in a few ticks.”   
  
Then she closes her eyes, and begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cookie for everyone in the comments who screamed IT'S THE ARM, OKAY, which is most of you. What will you guys figure out next?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, there are a few gruesome images in the dream sequence. Some mentions of blood and Shiro's arm replacement. Just in case.

* * *

 

“Someone thought to know me well,  
Drowned me in a wishing well.  
Making mistakes, we all do,  
Worst of mine was trusting in a stranger.”  
~The Vice, Sonata Arctica

* * *

 

The change is almost immediate.   
  
As soon as Allura closes her eyes, Shiro can feel the first flickers of _warmth_ , trickling from her palm. It spreads through him quickly, and Shiro has the strangest sensation of sitting comfortably near a campfire on a chilly night. It’s that sensation that goes bone-deep and warms one fully, in the way only a good fire really can, comfortable without being sweltering. Shiro doesn’t realize until that moment just how completely frozen he felt in the void, and lets out a quiet, relieved sigh as he starts to thaw.  
  
His eyes slide half closed, and his vision blurs. Like before, he can feel so strongly he can almost see the trails of quintessence at work, vivid against the gray of his clouded vision. Allura next to him is so _bright_ , and Keith next to her equally so. They have so much life to them. It’s almost painful to look at.   
  
The metallic _tap-tap-tap_ to his side increases in tempo. There’s a scraping noise and a soft hiss, but it’s all so far away Shiro doesn’t notice. All he can focus on is that, even as he stares, Keith seems to get less and less _bright_. That energy seems to flow through Allura, and Keith drains, becoming duller by the second.  
  
And Shiro…he can’t see _himself,_ exactly, but he can _feel_ it. That warmth grows stronger, filling him with strength and clarity, and he hungers for it, draws it in greedily. He can feel his confusing, twisted thoughts slipping into place again. The starved, empty void grows smaller and slips into the farthest corner of his mind, less intrusive and all consuming. His exhaustion is overpowering, so much he almost feels dizzy from it, but sleep doesn’t feel elusive and far beyond his reach.   
  
He feels better, but he also feels _other_ things. Things that aren’t exactly unfamiliar to him, but things he doesn’t recall ever having felt _this_ strongly before, things that he’s self-aware enough to know were never his own personal focus. A wild and fiery determination to achieve his goals at any cost. An incredible awareness of instinct and split-second internal decision making that will let him act almost before he realizes he is. The ability to see problems as a whole that borders on ruthless, putting what’s _necessary_ over what’s _desired_. But at the same time, an absolutely fierce drive to protect those extremely close to him at any cost, and damn the consequences.   
  
This is the quintessence the Red Lion is attracted to, Shiro realizes dazedly. He’s felt all of these things, but never so strongly before, never with such intensity. This is more than just borrowing energy to stay alive. This is more than ‘just energy’ at all. This is Keith’s _soul_ , that deepest core of himself, and he’s just given up a piece of it for Shiro.   
  
The wave of guilt he feels at that rolls over the tiny remnants of his hunger and tells him he’s recovered enough _to_ feel, but that almost makes it worse. It might have been easier to hide behind the dulled thoughts and empty emotions of his completely drained self. He wants to pull away from Allura’s hand on his forehead, take back his agreement to this, tell her to take it all back. He doesn’t have the right to do this. Now that he’s felt what he’s stealing, now that he can really _sense_ how personal it is and how invasive he’s being taking it, he regrets ever allowing this to happen at all. He shouldn’t be able to pry into their very cores, see the deepest parts of themselves, intrude on their very beings like this. Not if it costs Keith this badly, or anyone else.  
  
He tries to lift his real hand to push her away, but it’s still held folded between someone else’s hands, and he feels them rubbing the back of his hand soothingly with one thumb. They clearly think he’s nervous and are trying to calm him. They don’t understand what a mistake they’re making.   
  
He opens his eyes to look at them, tell them to _stop_ , order them if he has to, fight if it’s needed. Keith’s fiery instinct and and fierce drive to defend roil and burn at his core, ready and willing to assist. It feels strange. Like Keith is there with him, but he can _see_ Keith too next to the cot, eyes closed, concentrating hard, hand in hand with Allura, and even now his brightness gets duller still—  
  
 _No, no, no,_ Shiro’s core insists, _this has to stop,_ and Keith’s quintessence spits embers and curls in bright sparks around him and burns with defensive fury and hisses, _then we stop it, most important, protect all not one, hurry—_  
  
Shiro wrenches his head aside almost before he knows what he’s doing, away from Allura’s palm, and the warmth and energy flooding into him cuts off abruptly. He still feels stronger than before even so, with strength in his limbs and clarity in his mind and feeling in his heart again, his own soul bolstered by Keith’s. He is fully aware of the way it’s even _Keith_ ’s strength, not his own, that let him fight back to protect Keith himself before the red paladin gives up more than he ever should have.  
  
His vision is clearer and full of color again as he watches Allura jerk back in surprise at his sudden movement, which is sharper and faster than anything he’s been capable of for several hours now. She stumbles back slightly, and Coran is there to catch her under one arm, just like before. Keith also stumbles, swaying to the left. But Lance, the closest, hastily releases Shiro’s hand and stands, catching Keith by the shoulders and guiding the other paladin to his own seat.   
  
“Allura. _Keith_. Are you okay?” Shiro rasps. His voice feels unused and dry, but he ignores it.   
  
“I’m fine,” Allura says, waving her hand dismissively. “That was a little stranger than anticipated. I had not expected quite so intense a draw of energy. Keith, how are you feeling?”  
  
Keith blinks for a moment and shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut, clearly trying to focus. There are dark lines under his eyes, and he looks like he’s gone from being relatively well rested to not having slept for three days in just a few minutes. “Fine. Sort of. Tired, and it’s…it’s kind of hard to focus? I think I can manage. Probably.”   
  
He doesn’t sound entirely certain, and he looks exhausted. Shiro knows how he feels, because it’s exactly how he’s feeling currently. He doesn’t quite feel as _full_ as he did with his last re-infusion, but at least he doesn’t feel completely drained.   
  
“You can take a nap on the couch,” Hunk offers, gesturing to one side, where the lounge sofas remain unmoved.   
  
“Maybe. In a bit.” Keith blinks, and then stares at Shiro. “If _this_ is the best you’ve been dealing with though…damn. I probably don’t want to know what you were dealing with just a few minutes ago…”   
  
His shoulders droop, probably without him even noticing, and Shiro can’t help but wince. He might have more clarity now, and he might not be confused because of his quintessence drain, but that clarity makes him _acutely_ aware of how each point of weakness Keith is now displaying is _his_ fault. If Keith hadn’t been trying to save him, he wouldn’t be in this position.   
  
Without thinking he pushes his left hand into the cot, trying to lever into a sit. It’s easier this time—like his last re-infusion he feels kitten-weak and exhausted, but not heavy and immobile like before, and he’s able to move a little better. Keith’s quintessence helps, and seems to flare with warmth as it makes his movements quicker, sharper, more agile while requiring less thought and focus. It means he’s able to sit up surprisingly quickly, considering his recent health. There are several indignant squeaks as the mice tumble down his chest or slide off his shoulders, and he blinks in confusion as they scurry away. He hadn’t realized he’d become a pillow at some point. And…and his right arm doesn’t move quite as anticipated; there’s a number of sharp metal clanking noises, and it drags a bit awkwardly.   
  
“Woah, hold up, careful,” Pidge says hastily, scooting around the cot to the table set up next to it. Now that Shiro’s half sitting up and a little more aware, he realizes the table is covered in tools, as well as a few loose screws and bolts, and several metal panels and pieces. His arm is actually open, exposing a complicated mess of wiring and whirring, clicking pieces. It still reacts—he can wiggle his fingers, and it’s not super heavy, so the piece that compensates for its own weight is still active. But it’s a little harder to move it when there are clearly some pieces not in place.   
  
Shiro feels his heart beat a little harder at the sight of it. He knows they’ve done nothing wrong and that they’re trying to help, but at the same time, the feeling of being _disassembled_ , even to such a minor degree…he barely manages to keep his face neutral.  
  
“Sorry,” Pidge says. “We were in the middle of trying to examine it when you started getting a lot worse. It’s not as bad as it looks, we’re just trying to figure out what pieces handle what functions—“  
  
“But we can take a break if you need,” Hunk interjects smoothly, glancing at Shiro’s face. “After laying down for so long I’m guessing you want to stretch your legs, maybe get a bite to eat? You didn’t manage much at dinner.”  
  
He makes it sound like a casual suggestion, but his eyes say otherwise, and Shiro suspects he hadn’t kept his expression as neutral as he’d hoped. Hunk is just giving him an excuse to take a break and remind himself where he is, to calm down and reassure himself it’s all safe.   
  
_It’s all okay,_ he tells himself. _Just breathe in and out and maintain control._   
  
He takes his own advice, focuses on his breathing, tries to quell his edge of unease and panic. To his surprise, Keith’s quintessence seems to ebb and flow with his breaths, like a crackling fire  flaring stronger when fed new fuel, and it feels like it warms him again. It burns away at his uneasiness, shielding through offense, and keeps it at bay when it tries to claw its way into his mind again.   
  
It’s an unusual sensation. Like Keith is telling him to calm, without ever saying anything at all. The actual Keith doesn’t even seem aware of what his own quintessence is doing.  
  
“I…yeah. A break would be…would be good,” Shiro says slowly, frowning. “Dinner was last…have you all been up all night because of me?”  
  
They all hesitate and exchange looks, looking a little sheepish—except Keith, who mostly just stares at him. After a moment Hunk says, “Er, well…it’s actually dinner _again_ , or it was an hour or two ago…”  
  
He’d been out of it for a solid _day,_ and they’d been spending all their time and energy on him. He wants to protest, but Lance cuts in hastily, “But we’ve been swapping and taking shifts, okay! So it’s not like we’ve been up for over twenty four hours in a row. Don’t worry, Shiro, we got this.”   
  
That…actually might explain why Keith and Lance had somehow swapped places, at least. But it’s disturbing how much time he seemed to lose while just drifting in his own head, unable to focus.   
  
“He’s absolutely right,” Coran agrees. “No need to worry yourself over any of us. You just focus on conserving your strength until we can get this sorted out.”  
  
Hunk and Pidge are already working on re-assembling the few pieces of the arm they had adjusted so that Shiro can move comfortably. Allura puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. They’re all trying so hard to show they’re here to help, but it doesn’t do much to alleviate the guilt he still feels over putting them all in this position, or being too weak to handle whatever is wrong with him.  
  
And it _definitely_ doesn’t alleviate his guilt towards Keith, who is even quieter than usual while the rest of the team moves around him. So when the others finally finish replacing the last panel on his prosthetic and gesture for the door, he shakes his head. “Go on. I’ll catch up on a second.”   
  
They don’t miss the way he glances back at Keith, who hasn’t moved at all, when he says this. Hunk nods first. “Okay, I’ll go start putting a plate together for you so it’ll be ready in the dining hall.”  
  
“But don’t take too long or we’ll come find you,” Pidge warns, as they trickle out of the room. Allura and Coran say something about using the break to check the Castle’s systems, and Lance nudges Shiro’s arm as he passes by for the door. Then Shiro and Keith are alone in the lounge.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Shiro says without preamble. He’s still tired as hell and not likely to deliver any kind of eloquent speech, but his thoughts are still his own for the time being and he needs Keith to _know_ how guilty he feels.   
  
Keith blinks at him in confusion. “What?”  
  
“This shouldn’t have happened,” Shiro elaborates. “Taking your quintessence. It’s a private piece of you I should never have been able to take. And now you’re sick too because of me—“  
  
Keith’s entire body had been drooping with fatigue, and his expression had been one of blank exhaustion, so Shiro is _stunned_ at how rapidly that changes. Keith’s eyes narrow, and he jolts into a stand, which lets him tower over the still-sitting Shiro. He looks like he’s just clawed every scrap of anger he has left together, and the strange thing is, Shiro doesn’t just _see_ it—he can _feel_ it too. Keith’s quintessence resonates with its original owner, flaring angrily in Shiro’s mind, all crackling intensity and wild desire to protect through action.   
  
“Don’t you _dare_ apologize for this,” Keith growls, and Shiro can _feel_ it emphasized in his own core just as much as he hears the words. “You didn’t take or steal _anything_ , I gave it willingly.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have had to—“  
  
“I _shouldn’t_ have to watch you die, either,” Keith cuts him off hotly. “I’m never doing that again, okay? Once was enough.”   
  
Shiro feels like he’s been struck in the face. Keith’s quintessence seems to seize the chance, and rushes forward to burn away at his guilt, even as it resonates with its original owner. Keith seems to realize that was a harsh blow, or maybe he’s too tired to maintain his anger for so long in his own weakened state (Shiro tries to feel guilty, but Keith’s quintessence refuses to let him, countering it before he has a chance).   
  
His expression softens, and he rubs a hand over his face, saying tiredly, “I don’t think you understand how bad off you were just now, Shiro. It was scary. It was _really_ scary. I haven’t felt like that since the day they released the news on the Kerberos mission.” He shakes his head. “I’m never doing that again. I refuse to watch you just…just waste away if I can do something about it. I’ll take being tired or out of it like this for a couple days before I’ll _ever_ be okay with you letting yourself die because you think you’re protecting us.”   
  
Keith’s quintessence roars in agreement, burning bright, and Shiro can _feel_ that every word Keith says is true. “Sorry,” he says after a moment, and when Keith glares, he adds, “For scaring you. Not for the quintessence. It still doesn’t feel right, but…I can understand why, at least.”  
  
Keith just shrugs. Now that he’s said his piece, he looks exhausted, and Shiro can’t blame him. Keith struggles with the more emotional side of things even on a good day, and now, fighting against a dulled soul and chaotic thoughts, it’s got to be almost more than he can handle. And he still did it, for Shiro’s sake. He can feel Keith’s quintessence, fiercely protective and determined, and knows on a whole different level just how important this is to Keith.  
  
“You should go get dinner, before the others come looking for you,” he adds after a moment. “Think I’ll just…lay down for a bit.”   
  
“It won’t feel like much,” Shiro feels obligated to offer. It’s exposing some of his own weakness, but he owes Keith this much after Keith put himself in this situation just to save _him_. “It…it doesn’t really, for me.”  
  
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Keith says, frowning slightly.   
  
Shiro nods, and swings his legs over the side of the cot, coming to his feet with surprising agility, no doubt donated from the red quintessence. It does feel good to move, at least a little bit, and moving will make him feel at least marginally more alive, he knows. But it’s tiring too, even with Keith’s quintessence making him feel stronger than before.   
  
He almost makes it to the door before Keith says, almost hesitantly, “Shiro?”  
  
He turns. Keith is sitting on one of the couches now, and stares at him for a long moment, looking just as tired as Shiro feels. He’s definitely collecting his thoughts together, Shiro can tell—he knows how hard it can be—but after a moment he says, “This whole thing…it’s not your fault. It’s Galra’s.”  
  
Shiro frowns at that. He knows that objectively, but he feels like he should be contributing _somehow_ besides getting weaker until he steals his friends’ lives. But he doesn’t argue, because he can tell Keith is trying to work his way to something, and he doesn’t want him to lose his focus.  
  
“It’s Galra’s,” Keith repeats carefully, “And we don’t know how yet, Pidge and Hunk are still working on it. But it’s not you. But it’s still happening. And…and they might not know by the time you get to that scary point again. The others will want to help you then, too, just like this. You have to promise you’ll let them.”   
  
Shiro frowns. “I can’t—“  
  
“It’s not any different from what I just told you, Shiro,” Keith says, insistent, and his quintessence sparks angrily in agreement. “They can’t watch you die, either. It’s not fair to them or to you.”   
  
It doesn’t feel _right,_ to just agree to take the others’ lives too if it comes to it. But he’s never seen Keith as upset as he was right before he gave his quintessence, and he’d been furious now, and the others…the others must be the same. It doesn’t feel right, but he couldn’t really do that to them, could he?   
  
Maybe in the heat of battle. He would absolutely take a fatal hit for any of them and not regret it for a second. But like this, to just force them to watch him wither away, knowing full well they could do something to help but weren’t permitted to? He’d never forgive himself if the situation were reversed, and he can’t accept leaving them to deal with that after he’s gone.   
  
And deeper still, for all his noble thoughts and desire to protect, he just desperately wants to _live,_ and to not go out like _this._   
  
“Okay,” Shiro says after a moment. “I can’t…promise that I’ll remember, if it gets to that. It’s…it’s hard. At that point. But I’ll try.”  
  
Keith nods, and for one flickering second he looks relieved before the blankness settles back onto his face. “Good. I’ll help you remember if I have to. Now go eat.”  
  
Shiro does, but getting to the dining hall is a strange experience in itself. He’s always been aware of his surroundings naturally, but Keith’s quintessence makes him acutely aware of movement and sudden changes in his environment. It doesn’t just notice, either—it _assesses,_ determining how to react to those movements or changes lightning fast, bypassing deeper thought in favor of immediate action. Most of the time that action turns out to be nothing. There’s no danger, and no real need for those assessments. But he can still _feel_ his own mind, bolstered by the red quintessence, registering every movement his friends make, noting each door, path, or alternate route available from where he stands or sits at any given moment, and assessing any time _any_ of those things change, and if that changes any of his _own_ available actions. And it’s like it’s all second nature, to Keith’s quintessence; like it all goes on in the background without any conscious effort, but all the information is there when—if—Shiro would need it. No wonder Keith is such a natural pilot. His instincts are so sharp and his spacial awareness is so strong he can react to almost anything without wasting valuable thought processing time or logging hours of drills to do so.   
  
Even so, having all this extra awareness, and more emphasized agility in both mind and body, feels _weird_. It feels distinctly not _him_ , exactly, except currently it _is_. It’s not like Keith’s quintessence is a separate entity in his head. It’s _his_ thoughts that are doing all these things, really. _He’s_ the one constantly assessing and utilizing his instincts to a much higher degree; Keith’s quintessence just fuels it, burning quietly and illuminating his thoughts and instincts. It’s a little disorienting.   
  
When he does make it to the dining hall, it’s to find the rest of the paladins waiting, and a heaped plate full of nutritional but good-tasting foods. His appetite is lacking, but he tries to do more than just pick at it, especially when Hunk keeps insisting he needs his strength. By the end he’s so tired he’s ready to fall asleep in his plate, even with the added assistance of Keith’s quintessence—or maybe because of it. He sleeps better when his soul isn’t empty, even if it’s currently not filled with his _own_ soul. Lance suggests heading back to the cot for a decent rest.  
  
Shiro agrees. It won’t be as restful as he’d like, but he feels like he can at least get a little bit of real sleep out of it right now, with Keith’s quintessence still fresh and strong and bolstering his core. He needs to get what he can now. Because Keith had been right—he’ll keep getting weaker and returning to that empty, colorless, starved state until the others find out what’s wrong with his arm, and until they do, he needs to do whatever he can to keep his strength up.   
  
And the cot is so soft, and so comfortable, and he wants so badly to just close his eyes and not be aware of anything for a while.  
  
Keith had the same idea, apparently, because when the team returns to the lounge he’s stretched out on one of the couches, fast asleep. Coran disappears long enough to find some extra blankets and tosses one over the red paladin, and Keith is so out of it he never stirs. Shiro hopes his sleep is more restful than the drained dozes Shiro had been experiencing. Allura had said Keith’s quintessence would already be starting to regenerate naturally, so maybe he is.   
  
“Go ahead and keep looking,” Shiro says to Pidge and Hunk, as he sits down on the side of the cot. He hasn’t been walking for very long but sitting is already heavenly. His legs had been starting to feel weak, even with Keith’s quintessence giving him strength.  
  
“You sure?” Hunk asks, frowning. “We can let you get a nap in first…”  
  
“Faster we find the answers, the better,” Shiro says, making the decision while he still can. It’s a leader’s call, but it feels more snap judgement than usual. He just knows it has to be done, without having to analyze all the other possibilities. It’s _instinct_ , he realizes, as Keith’s quintessence burns quietly in the back of his mind and makes his choices just as lightning quick as his spacial assessments. Further thoughts support the decision—if this is done quickly, maybe less of the team will need to donate their own quintessence and less people will be harmed—but he hadn’t needed to consider those before making his choices, not like he normally would.  
  
This feels so _weird._   
  
“Alright,” Pidge says after a moment. “We can get started again once you’re comfortable. I think we have a better idea of the basics, so this time we can target some deeper core pieces and see if we can find…”  
  
Shiro settles back onto the cot again as Pidge rambles on about technical specifications and parts and coding, with Hunk occasionally chiming in. Lance takes his original place on Shiro’s left side, catches Shiro’s eye, and rolls his eyes, as if to say, _Smart people, right?_ But he’s smiling, and Shiro can almost feel a twitch of a smile at his own lips, tired and worn as he was.   
  
They were all trying so hard to save him, to make him feel comfortable and safe and protected. And right now he feels…not great, but better. Surrounded by people who care, feeling stronger than he has in well over a day, tired but able to rest, with warmth in his soul, he lets Pidge’s words wash over his mind and doesn’t fight when his eyes slowly begin to drift closed.

* * *

 

 _It’s dark. Pitch black, liquid black, cloying black, as far as the eye can’t see. Shiro’s only ever experienced darkness this complete once, when he fought Haggar during their attack on Zarkon’s ship, and she conjured shadows so solid and pure he was swallowed in them._  
  
 _He knows what waits in that darkness, and trembles despite himself. He can’t do this. He can’t face_ her. _Not now, not after everything, not when he’s so tired and so weak and so helpless._  
  
 _And as if she knows, as if she can_ sense _his vulnerability, bright yellow spots appear in the darkness and drift ever closer. He can feel her eyes on him, hear her soft laughter. She doesn’t hurry. She has all the time in the world, and he’s helpless to fight back._  
  
 _He turns to run, but the yellow eyes are behind him, too. To the side. In front. They surround him, glittering in the dark, and the laughter grows louder, coming from a dozen different throats. Fifty. A hundred. It cuts at his ears and digs claws into his heart and chills him to his core. There’s no escape. It would be foolish to try._  
  
 _But there’s a sudden crackling noise, and a primal roaring, and suddenly there’s_ light. _It comes in the form of a bright, swirling, almost smokey ribbon of energy as it darts through the glittering yellow eyes, trailing red ember sparks wherever it goes. Haggar’s laughter changes to a shriek of anger whenever the energy touches her, and her face is illuminated in the blackness by it, enough to reveal cracked burns wherever she makes contact._  
  
 _Shiro stares._  
  
 _The red energy is formless, but as he watches it darts in an ever-widening ring around him, and everywhere it goes ember sparks and glittering red smoke trails are left behind. It moves so fast it’s almost as though it creates a wall, leaving constant swirls in a warning ring around him. The cackling laughter that cuts so deeply is gone, and the witches on the outside of the smoky ring hiss angrily and stare furiously with their cold yellow eyes._  
  
 _One steps close, hands outstretched as if to cast a spell. But the swirling, fiery energy is on her in milliseconds, darting close and bursting against her cloak. The clothing goes up in flames, and harsh burns crack across her skin, and she shrieks angrily until she crumbles into ash. The other images of Haggar stare, but the energy continues to circle, prowling and aggressive, and they don’t try to pass the constant whirl of movement separating them from their prey. Shiro can see writhing shadows and dark spells slithering through their hands and under their cloaks, each one a terrible memory or awful feeling or twisted way to torment him anew, but they can’t reach him._  
  
 _And inside the circle, Shiro feels warm again, the ice in his heart made of fear thawing as bright embers drift past his face and never burn. Greater still he can feel raw determination and vicious defensiveness as the energy sparks around him, and can almost but not quite hear Keith’s own voice snarling,_ You can’t have him. Go away. Leave him alone.   
  
_Keith’s quintessence, Shiro realizes. It’s_ defending _him. It never takes any visible shape outside the darting embers and smokey trails around him, but he can_ feel _it facing outward, watching for danger, ready to lash out at anything that attacks. It never takes a form, but he can almost see Keith standing there anyway, bayard out and staring out into the darkness, guarding his back._  
  
Rest easy, _it seems to say._ It’s safe for now. I’ll fight for you.   
  
_Shiro is, for the first time, more stunned and grateful than guilty over the precious gift he’s been given._  
  
 _And it really works. Shiro can feel those dark things at the edge of his mind, constantly circling, looking for a chance to push forward and overtake him. But Keith’s quintessence is always there, fighting it back with wild fury and sheer determination, keeping the darkness at bay. And for a time his sleep is restful. He dreams, but he doesn’t remember really what about, just that it isn’t bad. He feels rested, and his mind sinks deeper below the surface. Almost, he can imagine that everything is alright, that everything up until this point has just been a bad dream in itself and it’s finally over._  
  
 _But good things never last, not for him, and Shiro knows it. He doesn’t know how long his peace manages to last, but eventually his dreams take an uglier turn. They become more vivid, strange, uncomfortable—not quite nightmares, but they remind him of the strange dreams he has when he’s sick. When his dreams are no longer restful and he knows he hurts, but they aren’t enough to send him gasping back into the waking world just yet._  
  
 _And when that happens he realizes that Keith’s quintessence is struggling now._  
  
 _There’s less of it. That’s the most obvious thing, to Shiro. The swirling, smokey trails in a ring around him are thinner and more transparent than before, and the bright embers that light the circle are fewer in number and duller. The circle has shrunk, the constant prowling movement slower and more sluggish, and the restless darkness on the outside is becoming more bold. One figure reaches out a clawed finger to swipe at the swirling red smoke, and the quintessence seems to_ lunge _, jolting the figure back. But while her arm—and soon, the rest of her—crumbles into ash and disappears into the blackness, Shiro can see barrier grow more transparent still._  
  
 _He’s out of time. He’s not awake, but he knows what this means._  
  
 _Keith’s quintessence fights relentlessly even when outmatched, but Shiro can start to see little bits of shadow slipping through the cracks, and the darting energy can’t keep up with the onslaught anymore. The end comes when Haggar stares at him through the transparent smoke and calmly swipes her fingers into it, and this time they don’t burn. She brushes it aside easily, and the color seems to drain from what’s left of the smoke and embers, leaving them a sickly, pale gray. The quintessence makes one last valiant attempt at protection, and hurls itself at Haggar’s head, but she slashes a hand through the trails of misty energy contemptuously. It disperses in one last puff, in one final burst of sparks that flutter away and disappear into the dark, burned out and dead._  
  
 _And Shiro is alone with the dark things in his head again, vulnerable and weak and frozen inside._  
  
 _She smiles, all glittering yellow eyes in the darkness that swallows them both again. She never speaks, but her hand reaches for his face. He jerks back away from her, defiant even now despite his exhaustion and weakness, and tries to smack her hand away. But it latches onto his wrist—his real one, flesh and blood and bone—and her nails dig deeply through skin and muscle, digging in so tight she’ll never let go. He screams, and she smiles wider, tugging insistently at his arm, dribbling his blood out into the darkness, and—_  
  
 _—and he’s in his cell on the Galra ship, and Haggar is gone. No, not gone, but his wrist is his own again, unmarred, the deep puncture wounds from her nails have disappeared, and—_  
  
 _—and he can’t remember why he was staring at his left arm. It’s the right he should be staring at. It’s not_ his _anymore, not flesh and blood, it’s cold metal and unfamiliar whirring noises and awful_ pain _where it attaches to his upper arm, what’s left of it. He remembers awful agony and merciless precision and torment as he’s held down, bright lights and masked faces hovering above him. He remembers screaming when they peel his right arm apart piece by piece, first stripping the skin back, then muscle and arteries and veins, and finally bone, moving agonizingly slowly from the tips of his fingers to his wrist to elbow and even further._ “For study,” _he remembers her saying._ “We must know how you work, Champion, so we can put you back together again better than before, is that not so?” _He remembers hoping desperately every time he starts to black out that if there is a god out there in the universe somewhere they’ll take pity on him and never let him wake up again._  
  
 _He always wakes._  
  
 _He’s awake now and this new_ thing _throbs where it’s attached to him. What’s left of his arm his sensitive and painful and swollen, and this new limb is so_ heavy, _tugging at his shoulder and dragging him down. It moves perfectly at his slightest thought, just like his real arm, but it feels unnatural and foreign and wrong. He wants to dig his fingers in at the seams and tear it off, but he feels so weak after those hours (days, months, years, eternity) on the table after whatever they did to him, feels feverish and sickly and clumsy, and he can’t._  
  
 _It hurts too badly to try, anyway._  
  
 _And he’s pretty sure Haggar wouldn’t let him._  
  
 _She’s standing in the doorway of his cell. Shiro can see several other druids waiting outside in perfect double rows, but Haggar needs no protection. Shiro is well aware she could shred him to pieces before he could ever lay so much as a punch on her. And she’s well aware that he knows it._  
  
 _Her smile is cold as she watches him stare at his new metal palm. “Better than before. Just as I said I would.”_  
  
 _It’s not better, not by any stretch of the imagination. He wants his real arm back. There was no need for some sort of…_ enhancement _like this. He’d only earned a small gash in the last fight. He’s had worse and been left to deal with it on his own. This was cruelty, and a new way to get into his head._  
  
 _He doesn’t respond to her. He feels sick and hazy but he knows enough not to let her win._  
  
 _But her smile grows a little wider, and it’s clear she knows what he’s thinking anyway. “I think you will find this makes you far more effective in the ring, Champion. You should thank me for giving you such a powerful weapon. Many Galra soldiers are not even awarded such an honor.”_  
  
 _He snorts in disgust and looks away from her. Resists the impulse to cradle his upper arm as best as he can with his left hand. It hurts so bad, but he won’t let her see. He can’t. His willpower, his resistance, his thoughts…these are the only things he has left. He won’t let her take them, too._  
  
 _“In exchange for such a gift, you will fight for us, as one of our best warriors,” she continues, when he doesn’t answer. “You are already skilled in battle, but you will do so in our name. You will fight for us. You will kill for us, if need be. And it will absolutely be of your own volition. I will expect nothing less.”_  
  
 _Shiro glares at her hatefully._  
  
 _“You will begin by showing us in the arena,” Haggar says, smile growing colder at his glare. “If you can behave there, then perhaps you can earn your way out of the arena and to true glory._  
  
 _“You show promise, Champion, but you don’t play the game as you should. This insistence on sparing your opponents’ lives and refusing to fight weaker opponents is idiocy, and does not please Zarkon. Champion brings many viewers and great profits, but they grow weary of his lack of resolve. You will learn to not just be strong, but to cull the infection that is the weak.”_  
  
 _Shiro can’t hold his silence any more. Haggar terrifies him on a primal level, but his anger overrides even that, and he finally snarls, “I won’t. And you can’t make me. I refuse to bend. And if you have a problem with that, then just kill me now.”_  
  
 _Her smile doesn’t change. “You will, in time. And this new tool will help you see this.”_  
  
 _He glares at the prosthetic, flexes its metal fingers with unfamiliar clicks and whirs. He wants so badly to put it around her neck right now. But he knows he’ll never get that close. Still, she seems so sure, and every instance of Galra technology he’s ever seen has been cruel and twisted._  
  
 _Maybe it’s intended to make him do something. Control him, or have a life of its own. Maybe it’s bloodthirsty and will kill opponents even if he puts them down non-lethally. He doesn’t know, but clearly she thinks it’s a counter to his resistance._  
  
 _But she doesn’t know him well enough if she thinks that will work. “I don’t care_ what _you make this thing do in my name,” he spits. “It won’t be me. And I’ll fight it anyway.”_  
  
 _Her smile disappears, but Shiro doesn’t feel like he’s struck a victory. She’s too calm and in control for that. And when she speaks he feels the first twist of dread in his belly—her voice is too confident, too._  
  
 _“You misunderstand, Champion. My prosthetic isn’t merely a tool for cleaning up your botched kills in the ring for you. If we merely used it to fight and kill for you while a part of you, or force you physically to act, you may find your current morals leave you feeling uncomfortable. But at the end of the day, it isn’t really you, Champion. Your mind and your decisions are still your own, and not of our cause. That is merely enslavement. Practical in many situations, certainly, but it isn’t making you one of us._  
  
 _“And you are too skilled by far for something as unsubtle as that, Champion. You are too powerful and have far too much promise to be squandered on arena matches, and your mind is far too capable to dull with control mechanisms or enforced actions. The Galra Empire desires_ you _as a weapon. When you kill, it will be your choice._ You, _not I nor anyone else, will decide when to do so. You will ascend through the arena ranks and beg us to let you fight for the glory of Galra, and when you will kneel before the Emperor it will be your proudest moment. And you will do so because more than anything, you want to live.”_  
  
 _Something about Haggar’s words makes that cold dread in his belly spread, icing over his insides. She sounds so_ sure. _So_ confident. _He’s not sure he can fight that, not when he doesn’t even know what her strategy is._  
  
 _But he can’t let her see weakness, and he bares his teeth at her in a fierce grin, even if it feels exhausted and strained. “Death threats? You think_ death threats _will make me beg to let me serve you? I risk death in the arena every day already. You can’t scare me with that. I refuse.”_  
  
 _“You may refuse all you like, Champion, but I have found the one thing in the universe that can be absolutely counted on is that everything that exists desires to survive. Even you. Perhaps especially you.”_  
  
 _Her cold smile is back. “You have three days of recovery. After that, you will begin your matches once again. Then we will see where your mind truly lies, Champion.” And without any further concern she turns, and glides out of the cell without a backwards look._  
  
 _The door slams shut behind her, leaving Shiro mostly in the dark, other than the four glowing strips along the wall that cast just enough dim purple light to see by. He sags back against the wall as soon as she’s gone, cradling his metal arm in his lap and clutching his throbbing upper arm in his natural hand._  
  
 _He hurts everywhere. He’s so tired. He feels feverish, and the skin near the edge of his prosthetic feels hot and swollen and sensitive, so it’s probably getting infected. He has three days to get better before he faces the very real chance of death in the arena again, and he doesn’t know if this thing will be a liability. He doesn’t even know what it can do, but he doesn’t like the way Haggar talks about it._  
  
 _But he’s still himself. She can keep him away from his home, she can lock him in a cell for his whole life, she can take away his options and his health and his chances and even his damn arm, but she can’t make him a monster. Only Shiro can do that to himself, and he refuses. He won’t. He can’t. He never would._  
  
 _Would he?_  
  
 _He sits in the dark for a long, long time, thinking on it. But no matter how many times he insists he would_ never _bow to them, and he’s still human even if it means death, he can’t help but think of Haggar’s cold smile and her cold confidence, and his iced over insides don’t start to melt._


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

 

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.”  
~ C. S. Lewis

* * *

  
Shiro’s eyes snap open with a start, and he sucks in a rattling, gasping breath.  
  
He’s not sure where he is; it’s too bright to be his cell. He has a split second to take in his surroundings, and there’s someone to his right, looming over him with a metal object in their hand.  
  
He doesn’t hesitate. This isn’t his cell, which means this is an attack, and he has to defend. Survive. _Live._ His body feels so heavy and he can barely work up the strength to move, even with the rush of adrenaline and the Galra mantra _only the strong survive_ flooding him.  
  
But his right arm has no such restrictions.  
  
There’s a metallic crashing noise as he launches his hand forward without even consciously thinking about it, and something tugs at it for a fraction of a second before snapping. His arm goes straight for the opponent’s throat, the quickest and most sure strike for victory. For _living._ They can’t be innocent if they’d attack in his sleep, and he can survive another day—  
  
But figure jumps back with a yelp and throws up a hand defensively, and Shiro’s metal fingers clamp around the metal object in their hand instead. His fist tightens immediately and he feels the vibrations as the whatever-it-is snaps under the pressure he puts on it.  
  
But he _missed._ He missed and the opponent is forewarned, and Shiro is already struggling. His right arm drops back down with a crash, still clutching the metal object. He tries to force himself up, but he can’t manage to rise more than an inch or two. He’s so weak, so ravenous, so _vulnerable_ , and he can’t—  
  
“Shiro! It’s okay!”  
  
“Shiro, calm down, it’s just us—“  
  
“—in the Castle of Lions, Shiro, can you—“  
  
“—safe, its’ okay, nobody’s hurting you, it’s okay—“  
  
“—easy, easy, it’s all fine—“  
  
“—breathing, Shiro, just focus on breathing, in and out, c’mon—“  
  
There’s so much noise, so many voices, but Shiro gradually realizes it’s not the screaming of the crowds or Haggar’s laughter or his guards or anything Galra. He manages to pick out the voices of his friends, and they’re familiar. Comforting. They speak softly, patiently, and he shakily latches onto their voices, clinging as best as he can.  
  
Everything is so confusing, and he’s still not sure where he is. He remembers Haggar and the darkness of his cell and _dread,_ but it’s bright and soft and he knows those voices, and none of it meshes. He manages to listen to whoever is instructing him on breathing, taking a shuddering breath in and trying to hold it until he’s allowed to gasp it out. The others quiet, letting the speaker continue, but Shiro can feel their presences nearby.  
  
It takes a while to focus, and he doesn’t manage it, really. His thoughts are a muddy, inconsistent mess again, sloppy and struggling, and everything in him feels dull once more. His color is gone again. He feels ravenous, starved for energy once again, and that void inside of him is screaming insistently, unfulfilled. He’s so, _so_ tired, even though he just woke up; he doesn’t feel like the rest did him anything at the end. He’s weak. Listless. Worthless.  
  
But he can focus on breathing, at least. With help, but he can manage it.  
  
It takes him a pathetically long time to realize the attacker at his side had to have been one of his friends, and he jerks his head to the side, trying to see through blurred gray vision even as he struggles to rise again. Several hands push him back gently but firmly, keeping him still, so he stammers instead, “Hurt…who….?”   
  
“Don’t you fret, number one,” someone to his right—Coran, he thinks—says in a lighthearted manner. Shiro thinks it might be forced, but he’s not sure. “No one was hurt at all. Well—you did give the wrench in my hand a bit of trouble. I suspect it may be time for it to retire. But no real harm done!”  
  
Shiro can still feel his metal fingers clenched around the metal object—a wrench, apparently—mostly because he can still hear metal grinding against metal as it clutches tightly and refuses to let go. He can feel someone make an ineffectual tug at one of the pieces, but his prosthetic refuses to release it, and they eventually decide to leave it be. Shiro’s glad, because now that the rush of battle is over, he can barely control it anymore—it feels stiff and responds very slowly.  
  
“Sorry,” he slurs weakly. He’s so…stupid. He should have known better. Too dangerous. Could’ve killed Coran. Could’ve killed any of them. Not right. Shouldn’t cost them so much. Shouldn’t be so risky. He’s a bad leader. Never should've attacked them. Terrible.  
  
“That’s quite alright,” Coran says, and Shiro feels the advisor patting his right shoulder gently. “You’re not feeling well. I understand.”  
  
That doesn’t seem like a good enough excuse to Shiro, really. But he’s almost immediately distracted by the disarray on the table next to Coran, where his arm is sprawled from where it dropped after his attack.  
  
It’s a mess. His arm has been stripped of half of the basic casing at this point, exposing more of the interior. The pieces look like they may have been stacked neatly at one point, but Shiro’s sudden movement sent most of the pieces scattering, and there’s probably more on the floor. There’s also several wires that look like the sensors Pidge uses to study Galra tech hanging out of the internal structure. But they look like they’ve been snapped, their ends torn and frayed and still sparking slightly. The other ends are plugged into Pidge’s laptop, which is now on its side, presumably from being tugged forward suddenly, and the screen is cracked slightly.  
  
Even in his dulled emotional state Shiro feels guilt. He knows he’s probably set them back on their studies and made a mess of things, and the laptop…it’s Pidge’s from home. One of the few things from Earth that she still has. And he’s broken it.  
  
He’s supposed to be the guy looking out for them, not wrecking every part of themselves they have left. What a damn joke he is.  
  
“Sorry,” he rasps again. He’s too tired to even care anymore how small his voice sounds, and how pathetic his apology must be. It doesn’t seem enough. But it’s all he can really manage.  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” Pidge says immediately, carefully setting the laptop upright again. “You didn’t do anything wrong. We probably should have anticipated something like this. It’s our fault.”  
  
It isn’t, and he doesn’t believe it for a second. But he doesn’t have the strength to argue.  
  
Instead, he tries to force his muddled thoughts into line long enough to ask, “How…long?”  
  
“It’s been a little under a day since Keith donated his quintessence,” Allura says immediately. Her expression is carefully neutral, but even Shiro’s struggling mind understands the true meaning behind the words. He’d burned through Keith’s energy even faster than last time. Whatever is happening to him, it’s getting worse by the day.  
  
“Keith?” Shiro asks next. It’s difficult to feel _worried,_ exactly, but he’d put Keith in that position…he’s supposed to be responsible for him, right?  
  
“I’m right here,” Keith says from his left, farther down next to Lance. He looks very tired, like his nap didn’t help him much, but he offers a weak smile when Shiro catches his eye. “I’m okay. Really tired, but I already feel better than yesterday. Allura says it’ll probably be a couple weeks before I’m fully recharged, but this is at least manageable.”  
  
“He only got up an hour before you, anyway,” Lance quips. “He’s been sleeping like _all day,_ just like you.” Keith shoots him a look, and Lance smirks at him before sobering. “You seemed more comfortable when you were asleep than you have been, so we’ve been letting you, but Allura said we were gonna have to wake you soon anyway.”  
  
Re-infusion. Right. Bad off as he is, Shiro knows he’ll need it soon, but…no. It can’t keep happening. He can’t keep taking his friends’ lives. They have to have found _some_ alternative. He turns his head weakly towards Pidge and Hunk, and rasps, “Answers?”  
  
Please, _please_ let them have found something.  
  
But Hunk’s and Pidge’s exchanged looks aren’t really encouraging, and after a moment Hunk sighs. “Well, we _kind_ of found something, but it’s not exactly a solution just yet. Mostly just…figuring out how it works.”  
  
“The prosthetic is actually fueled by quintessence,” Pidge says, looking grim. “I figured it’d be run by a Galra crystal or something, and the drain is some kind of trap, but we looked everywhere and there isn’t any kind of power source like that. It literally runs _on quintessence_. Which is why it’s pulling it from you, Shiro. You’re a viable fuel source, and it takes a lot of energy to maintain something this advanced.”  
  
“It’s fairly in line with other Galra technology we’ve seen so far, too,” Coran adds, looking distinctly disgusted. “We’ve already seen them using refining stations to turn raw quintessence into fuel cells for their warships and other technology. I suppose considering their track record it’s only natural they would make prosthetics that run off the same kind of fuel.” He shakes his head. “Barbaric, but unsurprising.”  
  
“I still don’t understand that,” Keith says, frowning. “If it’s always been doing this, why hasn’t it started acting up before now?”  
  
“I think it has some kind of storage for energy,” Pidge says, gesturing carefully to a point in the prosthetic—the point, Shiro thinks, that the now-snapped sensors were attached to. “Y’know, like a built-in backup battery for emergencies. If it got run dry…” She shrugs. “That’s what I was looking into when…um…”  
  
She pauses, but the quick glance at her laptop tells Shiro all he needs to know. Truthfully, he’d only picked up maybe a quarter of the conversation; even if he’s sure they had all been putting it in layman’s terms, it’s like Shiro’s brain can only catch a few pieces of the conversation at best. But he thinks he gets enough to know his arm is apparently feeding on him, and enough to feel like a screw-up when he realizes he interrupted Pidge’s work.  
  
“ ‘m sorry,” he slurs again, tired. He wishes he could stop just screwing things up for everyone. Wishes none of this was happening. Wishes he could rip his stupid consuming prosthetic off and never have to deal with it again. It’s not worth the trouble it’s causing now. Before when it was just him it didn’t matter, but it’s hurting _them_ now and he can’t stand it anymore.  
  
“Hey, Pidge already said it was okay.” Lance leans forward and pokes him in the forehead, gentle but firm. “You gotta go easier on yourself. And I think we’re done with all the depressing science talk for now, at least until you get energized again. Allura said you’re running on empty right now, but you’ll definitely feel better once you do.”  
  
No. No no _no_ , he can’t take someone else’s quintessence, not again. It’s wrong. It’s _bad_. He jerks his head away from Lance’s hand and shakes his head. “No! No more.”  
  
“Shiro.” It’s Keith, and Shiro feels obligated to look over at him when he recognizes how serious the tone is. Keith doesn’t look angry, which Shiro half expects after his vague memories from…yesterday, apparently. Instead he looks earnest, and when he speaks his voice is carefully controlled and non-accusing, but also holds firm. “Shiro. Remember what we talked about. You promised you’d let us help.”  
  
“I…”  
  
He had promised. It feels like a stupid promise, now that he’s reminded of it, but…  
  
But it feels so hard to _think_ right now. To feel. But he knows objectively that he was more in his right mind then, when he agreed to that. And Keith had promised to remind him. And now he was. He has to follow through, doesn’t he? He’s screwed everything else up, failed to come even close to everything else he’s supposed to represent. If he doesn’t follow through on even this, does he even have a right to be a part of this team anymore?  
  
He closes his eyes, and swallows hard for a moment against the choice. He doesn't want to. But he promised, and he doesn’t want to die, either. They’re trying to help him. The least he can do is let them.  
  
“…right,” he finally says, voice soft. “Okay.”  
  
Keith nods, like this is exactly the answer he expected, and settles back in his seat.  
  
“Guess that means I’m up next,” Lance drawls, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. “We can let Pidge and Hunk keep doing their thing that way.” He offers Allura what Shiro is pretty sure he thinks is his most charming grin, and adds, “This means I get to hold your hand, right Princess?”  
  
Keith rolls his eyes, Hunk groans, and Pidge lets out a half-choke, half-gag. Shiro feels like he probably might have smiled, if he could feel anything remotely close to humor, or exasperation. Mostly, though, he’s just worried about making Lance just as sick as Keith had been.  
  
Allura sighs in exasperation, but nods after a moment. “Yes. When we begin. Do you remember the instructions I gave Keith yesterday on how to concentrate on your energy?”  
  
“ ‘course I do, and I’m already a pro at it,” Lance says with supreme confidence. He grins at Shiro a moment later. “Don’t let my _amazing_ brilliance overwhelm you, got it?”  
  
Shiro just stares, unsure how to react and too tired to try and think of a response. He has a distant feeling that Lance is trying a little too hard to push the ‘overconfident’ act to extremes for Shiro’s sake, and it doesn’t quite feel natural, but he _is_ trying. Shiro suspects it’s an attempt to mask Lance’s own nerves, to keep from upsetting Shiro more than before.  
  
It doesn’t really work, and Shiro is still not happy about having to steal yet another of his friends’ quintessence. But at least Lance is making an effort.  
  
Allura stands at Shiro’s left side again, and Lance slides up next to her, offering his hand with what is probably intended to be a sly smile but mostly looks goofy. Allura rolls her eyes, and Pidge comments dryly, “Keep it up, Lance, and she’s gonna do that thing when she pins your arm behind your back again.”  
  
Lance’s goofy smile goes flat in an instant. “That was not fun hand holding, Allura. Please let’s not do that again. I’ll be good, I promise.”  
  
“Just…concentrate, Lance,” Allura says with a sigh, closing her own eyes and placing her hand on Shiro’s forehead once again.  
  
Lance does, expression serious now as he closes his own eyes and focuses. For a moment, nothing seems to happen, and Shiro isn’t sure if he should be relieved that he can’t take another’s quintessence after all, or disappointed that this empty void inside his core won’t be filled.  
  
But then it starts again. Shiro can feel the first trickles of energy emanating from Allura’s palm, little drops of quintessence that rapidly turn into a steady stream, and then a rushing river, as the flow increases. It cascades into the void and for a moment Shiro is afraid it will simply disappear, consumed as soon as it falls into that empty, broken core inside of him. He struggles to reach for it, desperate and wild for those feelings of _life_. But the void is sated eventually, just for the moment. Shiro reaches, and the energy starts to increase, and he starts to feel strength return to his limbs and his mind once more.  
  
But this is _different_ than last time, too. Keith’s energy had been warm, sinking into his bones, like a campfire on a chilly night. But Lance’s quintessence is the opposite—it flows like water, and it’s cool without being frigid. It’s a comforting sort of cool, too—a refreshing breeze on a warm day, the water on a summer beach, the crispness of approaching autumn. There’s a chill inside Shiro from the void, but Lance’s quintessence, rather than chasing it away, seems to leech the cold out of his bones and into itself, and he feels better for it in a different way.  
  
And the sensations he feels are so much different than the ones Keith’s quintessence grants, too. Once again, they’re all feelings and traits that Shiro isn’t entirely unfamiliar with, but they’ve never been _his_ strengths—except now they’re so much stronger than before it’s almost confusing. Extraversion is the strongest by far—an incredible outgoingness and friendliness, a willingness to try new things and meet new people and interact with the world. A strong awareness of people and how they act and what makes them tick, of the team dynamics on a personal level rather than a technical or strategical one. A fierce loyalty, one that permits him to stick by his team and follow them into danger to support them no matter what, even if he disagrees with the decisions made. And, more subtle but no less strong, an incredible adaptability and flexibility that allows him to adjust to any given situation as needed, depending on the goal at hand. This is not a quintessence that is the Strongest or the Fastest or the Smartest, but it tempers burning energy and energizes unmoving energy, can be flowing or solid or anything else it needs to be to get things done, and that’s a skill in its own right.  
  
Shiro’s eyes slide open wearily, and he can feel-almost-see the flow of energy coursing through Allura from Lance and into himself. Like before, they’re both so _bright_ , but he watches Lance’s brightness slowly go duller and duller as the flood of energy comes to him instead. He watches it gain a blue tinge as color slowly bleeds back into the rest of his vision, and feelings and strength and thoughts bleed back into the rest of him.  
  
It makes sense, he realizes, why they’re so different. The Red Lion and the Blue Lion want two different things. Their quintessences would be different. So would those of their chosen pilots. But it’s still stunning to see on a deeply, _deeply_ personal level the inherent differences between Keith and Lance; the way they both have an incredible amount of strength, but each in their own ways. Shiro’s always _known_ this, of course, but it means so much more when he can feel it, to know where their strengths and their souls really lie.  
  
He has to make sure everyone makes it through this. _Somehow._  
  
The increasingly dulled Lance starts to make Shiro nervous, much like before. Now that he’s starting to feel fuller, his primal _need_ for energy to fill him is less strong, and he can start to feel other things. He can’t take too much, he can’t make Lance sick too, Keith is already going to take weeks to recover and he can’t do that to all of them—  
  
But Lance’s quintessence doesn’t encourage a fight like Keith’s did. It adjusts _itself,_ counteracting Shiro’s anxiety with sensations of cheerfulness and calm, as if saying, _relax, we got this, it’s fine. Kick back, take it easy, grab a space-juice, there’s nothing to worry about, got it?_  
  
And as if she too senses it, Allura pulls her hand away after several minutes, this time before Shiro can overcome the new quintessence’s calm to fight back on his own. This time, the rest of the team is ready for it; Hunk has situated himself behind both Allura and Lance, and catches them both, one arm around each, as they sag back. Keith vacates his seat and lets Hunk plunk Lance down in it instead, and then the yellow paladin helps Allura over to one of the couches to settle her down against it as well.  
  
“How are you feeling, Shiro?” Pidge asks, watching carefully.  
  
Shiro blinks, and closes his eyes as he considers the question, digs inside himself to find the answer. He feels…better than he just had, certainly. Still shaky and physically weak, like he has after every other re-infusion so far, but he’s grown to expect that. His thoughts are stronger though, easier to connect. He can feel things again. His color is back. By all rights he’s better again.  
  
Except…except he doesn’t quite feel as good as he did last time, he’s pretty sure. That _emptiness_ is still there, not as overbearing as it just had been but not erased, either. He still feels exhausted and wants to sleep so badly, but he doesn’t feel like it will do as much as it did before. It all hovers at the back of his mind, not an immediate issue, but not something he’s allowed to forget. He doesn’t feel as _full._  
  
He remembers again his fear that the quintessence cascading into the void would just disappear, and wonders if some of it has already been greedily swallowed up. Even if Lance gave the same amount, Shiro doesn’t think it’s going as far anymore.  
  
But he doesn’t want to worry them. So he just says, “Better.” Which isn’t a _lie,_ exactly, but it’s not the whole truth, either.  
  
Pidge doesn’t look like she believes him, and neither do the rest of them. But it’s almost strange how simple it is to spot. Shiro catches the nuances in their expressions much easier than usual, noticing little details in their faces and in their body language and the way they seem to be talking without words to each other that seem so crystal clear now, but are things he’s positive he’s never noticed before. It’s Lance’s quintessence at work, he realizes. Lance’s quintessence doesn’t have the incredible spacial awareness and movement-oriented instinct of Keith’s, but it’s incredibly detail oriented when it comes to _people_ , and its instincts are much stronger in knowing how to deal with those social cues. It knows how to read a situation quickly, and Shiro can feel it coaxing his mind through assessing their unease and disbelief even now, translating all those assessments and all that detail into clear thoughts. It even helpfully adds, _we look like crap, that’s why they think you’re lying,_ which Shiro’s not sure if he should be insulted or impressed over.  
  
Lance’s quintessence urges him to smooth the situation over. It instinctively wants to disperse some of the unease, preferably with something lighthearted. Shiro reins it in a little, and settles for a distraction, instead turning his head to the side to look at Lance directly and ask, “You?”  
  
“This,” Lance declares, with far less enthusiasm than usual, “feels _weird._ I don’t know how you’ve been doing it, Shiro. You’ve gotta be even worse than this, right?”  
  
It’s nearly the same thing Keith said, which strikes Shiro as odd. _Understanding,_ Lance’s quintessence supplies. _Sympathy. Get you to talk so they understand better. Commiserate. Share pain. Hurts less._  
  
Lance’s quintessence isn’t really _speaking_ in the conventional sense, or even in the same sense the Lions do it—it’s more like these are now Shiro’s own thoughts framed in a new perspective. But he has already learned less than five minutes into this that Lance’s brain is _far_ more chatty than his or Keith’s ever will be, apparently.  
  
“It’s better right now,” Shiro answers neutrally. Lance frowns, and Lance’s quintessence seems displeased by the evasive answer on the part of its original owner. But Lance doesn’t appear to have the energy to pursue further, and his whole body seems to slump tiredly. There are already dark lines under his eyes.  
  
Shiro feels the same edge of guilt he felt before, after seeing Keith like this. Lance’s quintessence immediately adjusts to shape around that, imparting feelings of _but he was feeling like he couldn’t help in anyway and you’ve let him and he’s relieved_ and _willingly given for family_ and _he’s happy we’re gonna be okay a little longer._ The guilt eases almost without Shiro realizing it. Lance’s quintessence is far more adjustable than Keith’s more aggressive one and it’s catching him unawares.  
  
“You can try sleeping it off,” Keith says, sympathy in his tone. “It doesn’t really work at first, but if you just sleep through it you kinda feel… _fuller_ after a while. A little bit, at least.”  
  
“Oh, is _that_ why you slept for almost a whole day straight,” Lance drawls, but it’s not really as quippy as when he pointed it out before. “Well then. Permission to sleep in for the next twenty-four hours?”   
  
It takes Shiro longer than it should to realize Lance is addressing him, and asking for permission. _Jokingly_ , Lance’s quintessence insists, _it’s a joke, relax,_ but it still takes Shiro longer than it should to actually _make_ a decision. Maybe in part it’s because his own natural quintessence is weaker, but Shiro has a feeling it has more to do with his drain getting worse.  
  
Not a good sign. Even for a joke.  
  
But he nods, and adds, “Permission granted.” It’s a little raspy—his throat feels dry and his mouth dusty.  
  
Lance frowns, and so do the others. _They caught how long it took too_ Lance’s quintessence points out. _Upset. Know we’re still sick. Careful._ But after a moment Lance nods and, with a theatrical yawn, gets up and stumbles over to the nearest couch. He snags one of the extra blankets, wraps up in it, and stretches out on the couch, and before too long his breathing is  even in sleep.  
  
“We should get you some water,” Hunk says after a moment. “And maybe something to eat. We wanted to let you rest while you looked like you were still getting, well, actual _rest_ , but your throat sounds pretty dry. We can’t let you get dehydrated on top of everything else.”  
  
That’s a fair point, although the thought of eating doesn’t interest Shiro at the moment. It’s not like when he’s sick to his stomach and the thought of food makes him queasy, he just…he’s just not hungry, at least not for _food._ The hunger for something else entirely still hovers at the back of his mind, distracting and insistent, but Lance’s quintessence seems to shift around his thoughts better to block it, making the annoying little intrusive feelings a little quieter.  
  
Eating. Right. Shiro wearily pushes himself into a sit, but before he can go much further Pidge puts a hand on his chest, bringing him to a halt. “Hold it. You stay here.”  
  
Shiro frowns. He’s actually not sure he could walk the whole way to the dining hall unaided, truthfully. Lance’s quintessence appears to have increased the sharpness of his vision somewhat, but it doesn’t give him the increased agility and lighting-quick reflexes the red quintessence had. He’s stronger than he had been a few minutes ago, but feels too weak to do much with it. But he still feels like he has to _move._ “Dinner—“  
  
“Hunk or Coran can bring something here,” Pidge says firmly. “Until we figure out how to deactivate the way your arm is fueled right now, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be moving around much. It takes a lot of energy to even maintain it just sitting there, but I’m hoping if we at least cut down on movement and use we can prolong the drain. For a little while at least.”  
  
“Oh.” That’s also a fair point, and one Shiro should have thought of. He’d used the same strategy in the beginning, hadn’t he? When he first thought he’d just been overclocking his arm, and—  
  
—and in retrospect he probably should have realized this was the cause from the start. It had all started with his stupid _arm_. He should have known, rather than wasting everyone’s time and Keith’s quintessence and now Lance’s, he should’ve given them the direction from the beginning, but…  
  
…but he’s just so damn _tired_ , and has been since all this began, and it’s just so hard to think through all of this. He glares at his metal palm in frustration. He’s exhausted, but he still manages to hate it with every fiber of his being.  
  
Lance’s quintessence flows around that heated emotion and cools it, distracting him away from it. _Easy_ , it seems to say, _don’t waste your energy, be calm, it’s okay, not your fault, let them help._ And almost despite himself he finds his anger waning and more of a sense of lighthearted calm settling into his mind as well.  
  
“Right,” Shiro says finally, as Hunk and Pidge stare at him worriedly. “That’s fair. You…you’re probably right.”  
  
They nod in agreement. Hunk disappears to grab dinner while Pidge and Coran clean metal pieces off the floor. Keith reclaims his seat and stays next to Shiro quietly, a silent but solid presence. And Shiro just does his best to not move his arm, other than concentrating hard on wrenching his metal fingers open to finally relinquish the broken remains of the wrench to Coran, looking apologetic. Hunk returns with a glass of water and a bowl of food goo shortly after, and carefully doesn’t give the broken tool his attention. (Lance’s quintessence points out the aversion, anyway).  
  
He barely goes through half the bowl, which leaves Hunk looking more than a little upset, although he conceals it well…or he might have, if Shiro had been fully himself. It’s Lance’s quintessence that points out the telltale signs to Shiro, after all. He does manage to drink the water, at least, which feels good on his sandpapery throat.  
  
But by the end he’s barely managing to even sit up under his own power, and his left hand shakes each time he lifts the spoon, until he gives up on it completely. He’s tired, and everyone’s voices, when they speak, seem to drift around him.  
  
Maybe he’ll just lay down a bit. He’s not sure rest will be restful for _long,_ but Lance’s quintessence is still with him. Maybe he can get a little rest, at least. Escape what’s rapidly growing into a _living_ nightmare for a short period of time.  
  
Hunk takes the bowl and cup for him, and Keith coaxes him into laying down again. That’s when he realizes he must look as tired as he feels, and he doesn’t need Lance’s quintessence to tell him that much (although it does, anyway; it can’t seem to stop itself). Shiro’s eyes flutter as he drifts towards sleep again, but before he does he manages to grab Pidge’s wrist—with his left hand, carefully still not using his right.  
  
“‘m falling asleep,” he tells her seriously.  
  
“I hadn’t noticed,” she quips back. Her smile is weak, but there. She’s trying. “It’s fine. Get some rest. You really need it.”  
  
“You have to bind that,” Shiro says insistently, looking at his metal wrist. “When I’m out.”  
  
Pidge frowns, and Hunk and Coran both look over in surprise. _Careful_ , Lance’s quintessence warns. _They’re worried. Don’t want to hurt you. In any kind of way. Careful._  
  
And Shiro gets that. He understands that they’re familiar enough with his flashbacks to know they don’t want to upset him further, and he appreciates it more than he’s able to really convey. But he also did try to kill Coran as soon as he woke up, and it was only dumb luck that prevented a tragedy this time. He doesn’t know what will happen when he falls asleep. Haggar might be waiting again, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He can’t risk hurting them.  
  
So he says as much. “Might try to attack again. I can’t hurt anyone. _I can’t,_ do you understand? Do whatever you have to in order to prevent that. Restrain it, remove motor functions, whatever it takes. I don’t want to wake up and find I’ve put somebody in a cryo-pod.” _Or worse._  
  
Pidge bites her lip, and the others don’t look happy, something Lance’s quintessence highlights with crystal clarity. But after a moment she finally nods. “Alright,” she says uneasily. “But just the arm. And only because you asked.”  
  
“That’s all I’m asking for,” Shiro says. The thought of even one arm being restrained is not a comforting one, but he’s already taking their lives and their time over this. No one is going to die over him, either.  
  
The urgency of that request is the only thing still keeping him fully conscious. Now that it’s taken care of, and he’s safely assured that the next time he wakes it won’t be with someone’s throat in his hand, he finally lets go, and drifts under the surface into sleep. He’s barely aware of a quiet murmuring, and someone’s hand slipping around his natural one, before he’s completely under once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By far the hardest quintessence to write. Damn it Lance, why did you have to interrupt Allura’s explanation about what the Blue Lion stands for? Hopefully I did him justice.
> 
> So, now that this piece has actually been answered: one of the big sparks of inspiration for this fic is from the very first episode. Our first intro to Sendak is actually him unplugging his own Galra prosthetic from the ship after charging up. So, okay, presumably those things need fueling, but we never see Shiro doing any kind of maintenance like that on HIS arm, soooo….what does HIS arm run on? 
> 
> Answer: Shiro’s arm runs on Shiro’s soul, apparently.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting this up a little earlier than usual so I can get to work on some other stuff today.
> 
> FYI, some blood and stuff in this chapter.

* * *

 

“Help me—I’ve fallen on the inside,  
I tried to change the game,  
I tried to infiltrate,  
But now I'm losing men in cloaks,  
Always seem to run the show,  
Save me from the ghosts and shadows,  
Before they eat my soul.”  
~Mercy, Muse

* * *

 

 _The absolute blackness is back. It’s the same as before—so thick and impenetrable he can’t see his own hands in front of his face, no matter how hard he tries. Shiro is more familiar with this darkness now, but that doesn’t bring him any comfort. Keith’s quintessence had existed here, but Haggar also exists here, and his last encounter had not ended well._  
  
 _He stays frozen in place, and listens as hard as he can. He’s tempted to run, but he doesn’t know if he’ll run straight into her clutching claw-like hands, and nothing good will happen if she finds him. He has to be careful. He can’t let her win._  
  
 _He sees glittering yellow eyes through the darkness to his left, and hears her cackle. That way lies danger, and he does an about-face immediately, turning to run in the opposite direction before she can close in—_  
  
 _—and there’s a sudden acrid tang of smoke and ash in his mouth and nose as she just_ appears _in front of him, looming out of the darkness inches from his face. He yells in surprise and tries to backpedal immediately, or turn his momentum into a turn, or_ something _. Anything to get away from her._  
  
 _But he’s not fast enough, and her clawed hands lunge out just like last time, wrapping around his left arm and clinging with a grip of steel. She has him, and his mind is_ screaming _inside suddenly, desperate and panicked and wild. He outsizes and outweighs her but he can’t seem to break her grip. She drags him closer, and he can’t get away, he can’t, he’s trapped and there’s no way to escape, no hope—_  
  
 _But something flows through his mind suddenly—cheerful calmness, solidarity, confidence, and the screaming in his own mind quiets, and focus returns to him. He can see, suddenly; the darkness isn’t so cloying, and there’s a faint blue light coming from…somewhere. He’s not sure where. He’s more concerned with the fact that his arm appears to be smoking where Haggar is holding it, and wonders what new form of torture this is meant to be for him, and how well he can fight it._  
  
 _Except he feels no pain—Haggar’s claws don’t even dig into his wrist. Instead, he feels a powerful sensation of determined loyalty flood through him, angry and protective, acting in his name as it rushes angrily at his opponent._ Not for you _, it seems to snap._ Let go. Back off. _And Haggar’s yellow eyes widen, and she snarls as she releases his arm. Shiro is stunned to see frost crawling up her fingers, her hand, disappearing under her robe, creeping up her neck to her face, until the entirety of her seems frozen over. She shatters to pieces, robes disappearing into shadow, and within moments she’s gone._  
  
 _Gone, but not for long. Shiro catches the glittering yellow eyes out of the corner of his own vision, and whirls to face her. But this time Haggar keeps her distance, watching from far away. Her expression is hateful, but she doesn’t come closer. Which is the point when Shiro realizes that his arm—all of him—is still smoking faintly, like he’s burning inside, or like—_  
  
 _—or like dry ice, he realizes, thinking of the way Haggar’s hand had frozen over the moment she touched him. This is_ Lance’s _quintessence, once again so different from Keith’s. Where Keith’s had been aggressive, shielding through offense outwardly, Lance’s takes internal defense as a better approach. Which…makes sense, in a way, Shiro realizes in bewilderment. Lance is a leg of Voltron. His first priority is always support before attack, protecting the internal team before extending for the external fight._  
  
 _Lance’s quintessence won’t actively hunt Haggar down, but it will make her pay dearly if she tries to take Shiro if he doesn’t want to go. And Haggar seems to know it. She watches, and she paces, but she doesn’t laugh anymore, and she doesn’t come closer. Lance’s quintessence never takes any form other than the trailing, pale blue smoke that is now curling around Shiro’s feet and waiting. But Shiro can almost feel Lance standing next to him, bead drawn on Haggar with his rifle bayard, as he lets Shiro know with a confident smirk that he’s got this covered and everything is okay._  
  
 _As if the quintessence hears him, it seems to soothe what’s left of his confusion and fear away, and he swears he almost feels it_ grinning.   
  
Rest easy, _it seems to say._ It’s safe for now. I’ll stay with you.   
  
_Such a different approach than the last, but he can still feel that fierce loyalty and determination. He can still feel the way it projects positive emotions and feelings whenever he starts to feel uneasy about the way Haggar stares, or gestures, or flexes her clawed hands like she’s waiting to sink them into his flesh. It’s like Lance’s quintessence is trying to cheer him up every time he feels worse, any way it can—like it’s a positive force between him and something truly terrifying._  
  
 _And most importantly, it doesn’t leave him. Because Shiro can tell Haggar is just waiting for the moment he’s alone to pounce, when he doesn’t have another paladin watching his back anymore and he’s easy, vulnerable prey. But it doesn’t abandon him and leave him alone for a second. And she doesn’t come close._  
  
 _And for a time, just like before, Shiro finds his mind is peaceful and his dreams are quiet. His rest doesn’t feel quite as rejuvenating as he’d like—it takes so much to do so little—but at least his mind isn’t plagued by dark thoughts and darker memories. Things don’t feel okay, but they do feel better than before, at least._  
  
 _But like before, there’s only so long this can last, and eventually Shiro can start to feel the positive projections Lance’s quintessence gives him fade. The faint blue mist rolling gently off his skin and curling around his feet starts to thin. And Haggar, eyes predatory, takes her first step closer._  
  
Run, _Lance’s quintessence seems to say suddenly. It feels weaker. Tired._ Run. Live to fight another day. Hurry.   
  
_It hasn’t lied to him yet. Shiro turns, and bolts._  
  
 _He doesn’t make it very far before Haggar lunges out of the darkness to his left in another acrid burst of smoke, and slashes at his face. Shiro feels two of her long nails connect, gouging deeply into his cheek and just missing his eye. With a burst of fear and fury, Shiro feels the last of Lance’s quintessence strike, as frost grows up Haggar’s arm once again. But she grins savagely, and flicks her fingers with contempt. There’s a flash of purple, and the frost’s blue hue drains into a dulled gray and shatters off her skin, disappearing in tiny flurries in the dark._  
  
 _And Shiro is alone with the monster in his mind again._  
  
 _He twists away to keep running, to use the time the last of Lance’s quintessence bought him to flee, but he feels her dagger-like nails dig into his left shoulder. He gasps as she drags him back, as easy as if he were a child, like all his strength and size means nothing. Her talons dig deeper and_ twist, _and he can’t help but cry out in pain as she cuts deeper and deeper, blood running in rivulets over his skin and her fingers into the shadow, and—_  
  
 _—and he watches the energy partition rise in front of him, opening the way into the arena. He stares at the now-familiar sand and metal pillars jutting out of the ground, and stares expectantly at the sentries on either side of him._  
  
 _They don’t give him a weapon, just shove him forward into the ring with the butts of their firearms. They’ve never given him a weapon since getting the metal prosthetic two weeks ago. He doesn’t fight it, and just goes quietly into the ring, knowing better than to get antagonistic now. When there’s no one to protect it’s not worth it; it usually just gives him an extra bruise or burn or gash to have to contend with in the fight itself._  
  
 _He stumbles a little as his feet slide in the sand, and he winces as it jars his prosthetic. Two weeks later it’s no longer infected, but it’s still extremely sensitive, and the scar tissue hasn’t had a chance to heal fully. The metal chafes against his skin and weighs down his right side, and he knows it’s going to hurt like hell by the end of the fight, no matter what he does._  
  
 _His stomach growls, and he winces. He’s starving, so hungry he feels shaky and weak, and waves of exhaustion roll through him with every step. That hunger is always on his mind now, a gnawing void in his thoughts he can’t ever seem to rid himself of. He hasn’t eaten well recently—standard rations in the ring just aren’t enough when you’re constantly fighting for your life and trying to recover from injuries._  
  
 _Winning rewards more food and water, and winning after a spectacular show rewards more still, but Shiro hasn’t behaved well for his past three fights. His opponents have all clearly been captured civilians and slaves, decked out in the same ragged black suit and overshirt as himself, all carrying weapons in unfamiliar hands and watching him like he’s the goddamned devil himself. It doesn’t matter what they actually look like, vaguely humanoid or not at all—every time he looks at them he can hear Matt’s shaking voice._ “I’m not going to make it. I’ll never see my family again.” _And he can’t be that monster to them. He won’t. Screw Haggar and her confidence—the only thing that can make Shiro a monster is Shiro himself, and he refuses._  
  
 _So he beats them, because if they win a match they’ll never survive against the next opponent, and many others in the arena aren’t just winners—they’re_ sadistic _winners. He uses the same tactic he uses on Matt, injuring them just enough that they’re useless in fights but still viable as free labor, defeating them quickly and efficiently. They leave alive. He wins. In a personal sense just as, if not more than, a literal one._  
  
 _But by the third bout and the third win, his victories start to feel more hollow. Haggar is not happy with his resistance, clearly, because he doesn’t get the extra rations he’d normally be rewarded for defeating any opponent. His hunger starts to claw not just at his stomach, but at his mind, and he feels weaker and more exhausted the more time passes. He’s spared those lives, and he should feel fulfilled because of it, feel a grim sort of pleasure at being able to disobey Haggar in any way, in making any kind of decision where they gave him no choice at all, for being able to retain his humanity in this hellhole._  
  
 _But it’s hard to feel accomplished about anything when he feels like a wraith, withering away on the inside. Mostly he just feels tired. Like he’s accomplished nothing. Like his efforts are pointless. Like he can’t be bothered to care._  
  
 _He almost dreads seeing his next opponent. He doesn’t know what he can do if it’s another terrified slave that’s desperate to go home to their family and probably never will. He needs a real victory, but he needs to keep his humanity, too. It’s all he has left of himself._  
  
 _So he feels…_ relief, _almost…when he spots the brute across from him stepping out onto the sands. The announcer screams the matchup that Shiro can understand through the miracle of some sort of translating technology. Champion versus Harronox, a new up-and-comer, who earned his spot in the ring for slaughtering twenty different people during a Galra invasion—mostly civilians, but also a Galra officer. Shiro suspects the Galra were none too pleased about a non-Galra showing enough insubordination to kill one of their officers, which is probably why the guy is here now._  
  
 _Shiro has no pity for him. Nineteen innocent civilians slaughtered._ This _guy is a monster—he’s fair game, and he’s going to be Shiro’s real win and meal ticket for the next day or two._  
  
 _Shiro sizes him up, well aware that his own ravening hunger, exhaustion, and lack of familiarity with his weapon are going to be major setbacks for himself. He can’t rush things, or he’ll be_ this _guy’s meal ticket. The brute stands upright and twice Shiro’s height, with a thick elephantine head, body and legs. But the rest of him looks like it belongs on the ocean floor—his arms are like massive crab claws, and he seems protected by a thick carapace that overlaps his body like armor. He clacks the claws threateningly, and leers at Shiro from beneath a tentacle-like trunk._  
  
He underestimates you because of your size, _Shiro coaches himself automatically._ Use it. Naturally armored, need to find a weak point first, then strike hard and fast. No weapon, but watch the claws, he can crush you or snap you in half with them. Eyes might be a weak point. Nose looks soft too.   
  
_And when he barely keeps himself from visibly swaying, he adds,_ End this fast. Surviving with some rations is better than dying trying to get extra for a flashy show.   
  
_Harronox doesn’t wait—he hurls himself forward as soon as he catches sight of Shiro, and roars as he brings both massive claws down in a devastating hammer move. Shiro doesn’t dodge to the side as expected, but rather dives forward, rolling between his opponent’s feet and skidding to his own on the other side. It leaves his head spinning from the sudden movement on top of the fatigue, but he’s in the clear._  
  
 _This clearly isn’t a move Harronox expects, because his next move is to sweep his claws sideways, ostensibly to toss or crush an opponent when they predictably dodged to the right or left. But it puts him off balance from behind, and Shiro takes the opportunity to clench his new metal fingers into a fist and smash them into the back of Harronox’s left leg._  
  
 _The carapace holds, which is impressive. Shiro hasn’t had much opportunity to test the limits of his new arm yet, but he knows already it’s significantly stronger than his left hand based on the way he effortlessly breaks ration bowls and cups (and weapons, and bones, and—). But it does crack the surface of Harronox’s natural armor. With more strength and power he could shatter it, he thinks._  
  
 _If he can_ find _the strength and the power. That punch alone feels like it drives a knife into the place the prosthetic connects to his flesh, and he grits his teeth to keep a gasp of pain from escaping._ Don’t show your weakness, _he snarls at himself._  
  
 _The punch does succeed in buckling Harronox’s knee from behind. His surprised opponent drops to one knee with a crash, overbalancing as his massive claws splay awkwardly forward. Shiro takes the opportunity to leap onto his back, ignoring the wave of dizziness that comes with the sudden movement. He claws his way up the opponent’s carapace, digging fingers into the natural cracks and crevices, and ignores Harronox’s startled yowl and angry thrashing as the massive being tries to shake him off._  
  
 _Harronox’s head is also armored with carapace, oddly flat on top of the head and in the back, but his eyes are exposed. Shiro draws back his metal fist and slams it into his opponent’s eye slit, as hard as he can. Harronox shrieks in surprise and twists his head back in automatic reaction. In that brief moment of flailing Shiro sees it—the exposed, soft flesh of his opponent’s neck and throat, visible through chinks in the natural carapace when stretched back like this._  
  
 _Shiro lunges, but he doesn’t make it close enough—something wraps around his metal wrist and hauls him back. He realizes too late he forgot to account for Harronox’s fleshy trunk, which operates, he now realizes, just like an elephant’s. It wraps from his wrist to around his whole arm, and with an enraged scream Harronox flings him across the arena._  
  
 _Flashes of the crowd pass Shiro by too fast to really take into account, and he’s dizzy from the movement. Then his back smashes into one of the pillars in the area, and his head cracks against it a second later, and he sinks in a sitting slump down to the sand._  
  
 _His vision is hazy. Blurred. Dulled at the edges. He feels so…so hungry. So weak. So tired. The throbbing pain now bursting through his head and back doesn’t help any, and what’s left of his right arm is screaming in agony from being so brutally whipped around and thrown by his prosthetic. He can feel vibrations in the sand and in the pillar at his back, and hear the screams of the arena spectators. And, harder to pick out, he can hear and feel a distinct little_ click-click-click, _repetitive and insistent._  
  
 _He blinks, and twists his head down. Realizes his own metal fingers are tap-tap-tapping incessantly against each other. Some kind of nervous tic, or maybe a malfunction. Probably a malfunction. Harronox had probably done something when he wrapped up the prosthetic and flung it like that._  
  
 _God, it’s so hard to focus. He hit his head harder than he thought._  
  
 _The rumbling vibrations he can feel in the pillar and sand grow more insistent now. Shiro blinks his vision to see Harronox barreling towards him. His opponent looks enraged, and both his claws clack threateningly. He’s not underestimating Shiro now—he’s_ mad, _and Shiro’s ruined his chance to take advantage of that misstep._  
  
 _But he’s not going to lose._ He’s not going to lose. _This sick son of a bitch slaughtered more than a dozen innocent people for no damn reason at all, and he had the gall to underestimate Champion. He thinks he can kill Shiro. He thinks he has the damn right to do so._  
  
 _But Shiro refuses to die. Champion refuses to roll over and give in. He’s going to_ live _, damn it. He’s going to survive and he’s going to find Matt and Commander Holt and he’s going to go home and he’s going to make sure these sick sons of bitches_ never _hurt another person from his planet_ ever again.   
  
_If they think they can steal his life away before he does those things, they’ve got another damn thing coming._  
  
 _His arm stops tapping, and instead there’s a sudden_ thrum _of noise from it as the gears inside begin whirring faster. Shiro gasps in surprise and in_ pain _as it seems to make what’s left of his right arm throb even harder, and it feels for a moment like the breath is sucked out of him. Exhaustion rolls over him, so powerful he almost passes out then and there, and he only stays conscious through sheer force of will, sheer_ refusal _to literally lay down and die. His hunger grows exponentially as well; it’s like every painful or weakening sensation doubles in strength, and it’s almost overwhelming. He clutches at his wrist and can’t suppress a cry of pain as he does._  
  
 _But while the sensations are awful, the arm’s reaction is stunning. It sparks to life, his hand glowing with violet-white energy. This close to his chest and face he can feel the heat rolling off of it, and knows better than to touch with his flesh. It crackles like electricity, but glows like druid magic, and he’s not sure what it is or if he wants this much unknown power_ literally _sitting in the palm of his hand._  
  
 _Harronox roars, and Shiro realizes almost too late he’s forgotten himself in his confusion and his exhaustion and his surprise. He rolls left as one massive claw comes smashing down exactly where he’d been sitting, digging chunks out of the pillar and sending rocks scattering everywhere. Shiro curses as several sharp pieces dig into his arms and torso like shrapnel. He curses louder when his own superheated metal hand accidentally touches his natural one, instantly burning several finger marks into his palm and wrist._  
  
 _He doesn’t have time to react further. Harronox sweeps the same massive claw out sideways just as before, but this time Shiro is in the path of it. He can’t escape in time, and almost on instinct he swings his metal arm out with a yell, palm flat and fingers extended, cutting like a blade._  
  
 _The energy_ thrums _again and seems to charge just before slashing clean through the front half of Harronox’s claw. The severed piece goes flying, narrowly missing Shiro by half an inch. He doesn’t manage to dodge the acid-green blood that comes spitting out, and his slave uniform is spattered with gore in just a few seconds. The same blood hisses and sizzles off Shiro’s still-burning hand, and his weapon is almost instantly clean again._  
  
 _Harronox_ screams, _and flails back in a sudden panic at the first serious wound in the fight. Shiro sways in place for a moment, feeling his exhaustion crashing in the back of his head, but his vision is oddly sharp and gray. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest and he’s gasping for breath, can feel the adrenaline coursing through him and hot fury and the sheer need to_ survive _singing in his ears, and he presses his advantage before Harronox can recover._  
  
 _He launches himself forward, staggering on top of Harronox’s half claw, and clambers up the thick, carapace-covered arm of his opponent. He’s within Harronox’s range too fast. Shiro can see the other’s remaining undamaged eye go wide in sudden understanding, and he flails the other claw to beat away the pesky human, but it’s too late._  
  
 _Shiro hurls himself up the last natural armor plate. With a furious, primal yell and the very last bit of his strength, he slams his still-glowing right hand through the carapace and straight into Harronox’s fleshy throat._  
  
 _Harronox’s shriek of pain turns into a gurgle, and he flails again. Shiro takes several no doubt bruising beatings from the trunk once more, but holds on gamely, metal fingers squeezing ever tighter. He doesn’t think he could let go at this point even if he wanted to. Harronox flails, and gurgles, and tries to beat at the too-small thing ripping the breath and blood out of it, but he can’t reach. And eventually he stills, and collapses, and Shiro falls with him._  
  
 _He rolls off the body. Pulling his hand free from Harronox’s throat is difficult, his fingers are fastened so tightly, but once he manages he staggers to a stand. He’s panting harshly, wild-eyed and coated in acid-green fluids. His heart still hammers in his chest so hard it’s almost painful, and his arm throbs from the beating he’s taken, and the rest of his body complains from the dozens of cuts and bruises he’s taken._  
  
 _But he feels more alive than he has in days._  
  
 _It’s almost euphoric. There is nothing that can truly match surviving against all odds when the entire world feels like it’s against you. There’s nothing quite like snatching victory out of death. It’s like some terrifying kind of high, one that leaves Shiro shaky and weak but wild in the knowledge that he_ lived, _and his win feels less meaningless for it. Everything else seems to fall away, unimportant. All three of his previous fights ended with his opponents walking away alive with a chance to see their families again, and yet this one, this one felt more fulfilling than all three of those put together._  
  
 _And that scares the hell out of Shiro._  
  
 _He lets the sentries drag him out of the arena and back to his cell after his victory is announced, hiding any hints of his emotions. Haggar is out there watching somewhere, he knows, and he can’t let her see him react. But once he’s alone, once he’s wolfed down his extra rations to take the edge off his hunger, once he’s used his extra water rations to try and clean the gore off of himself and out of his now-sticky and no-longer-glowing right hand, once he’s slept like the dead for almost a day as he nurses his injuries…he stares at his metal palm and wonders._  
  
 _What is Haggar’s game? Why give him such an insanely powerful weapon like this?_  
  
 _He’s still not sure, but he’s definitely afraid to know the answer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lance’s quintessence is basically a patronus, okay. 
> 
> Also just as a head’s up, there will be NO UPDATE tomorrow. I need some time to get some stuff done and posting chapters daily takes up quite a bit of it. See you Tuesday!


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

 

"It takes a man all his inborn strength to fight hunger properly. It's really easier to face bereavement, dishonour, and the perdition of one's soul—than this kind of prolonged hunger. Sad, but true."  
~ _Heart of Darkness,_ Joseph Conrad

* * *

  
Shiro jerks awake with a shuddering gasp, and finds himself surrounded.  
  
That’s never a good thing, but he’s also on his back, and the gray figures tower over him, and that sparks terror in an otherwise hazy, confused mind. _She knows_ , he realizes, _she knows and she’s coming for me._  
  
He feels so heavy, so sick and _weak_. He’s not sure he can fight back. He tries anyway, lashing out with his prosthetic at the nearest gray figure almost before he realizes he is.  
  
Or he tries, but it doesn’t move. He tugs at it again in another spark of panic, pulls incessantly with his shoulder, but all he succeeds in is sending spikes of pain through what’s left of his right arm when he pulls too hard. It’s bound fast farther up the arm, at the wrist maybe—  
  
“Shiro! Shiro, it’s okay—“  
  
—and he can’t move it, he can’t get free and the rest of him is so _heavy_ and there’s something holding him in place and he’s laying down with them all around him and it has to be her, she knows, _she knows, she was watching, she knows_ something, _I can’t let her win, I can’t let her win_ whatever _her game is, I can’t—I can’t fight her, I don’t know how, I can’t do this_ —  
  
“Shiro, ssh, it’s okay—“  
  
“It’s just us, me and Pidge and Keith and Coran—“  
  
“Shiro, lad, it’s alright, there’s no danger—“  
  
“Breathing, Shiro—in and out—c’mon, you did it last time, you can do it again—“  
  
He only vaguely registers the words. They feel so far away and so distant and hard to understand. Something else catches his attention more fully, though, a tickling sort of feeling against the side of his shoulders and neck and face. It’s soft and gentle and distinctly _nothing_ like Haggar and nothing like the druids and nothing like _Galra._ He blinks in confusion, and tries to focus on the sensation, and slowly starts to register the quiet little squeaks, and the soft furry little bodies and tickling whiskers.  
  
Mice. There’s mice on the…pillow? It’s too soft around his head, and the mice are nuzzling at his face and neck, like they’re trying to offer comfort. Not Galra, then. Not wild. Someone’s…pets? No, friends. Friends of Allura.   
  
_Allura. Castle. Ship. The Lions. The paladins._   
  
He lets out another ragged gasp as his confused thoughts become at least a little less lost, and recognizes the voices speaking now. He latches almost desperately onto words…he thinks they’re Keith’s…and follows the instructions about breathing until his heart isn’t hammering in his chest anymore. The mice only settle again when he does, tucking up snug against his head and shoulders again. He can feel them even if he can’t really see them.   
  
“That’s better, Shiro. Way better. Keep it up, and and out. You with us?”  
  
Good question…one Shiro doesn’t really know how to answer. He recognizes where he is now—still on the cot, with is right arm stretched out to one side and the rest of him nested in blankets. Someone’s put a lighter blanket over him while he was out. Its weight doesn’t feel as smothering as it did a moment ago, now that he knows it’s not restraints. Keith is on his left, Coran over his head, and Pidge and Hunk to his right. None of them have color again. He knows where he is, and that’s a victory, but…  
  
But he feels awful. There’s no way to deny it, not even to himself. There’s no strength in his body anymore; he feels like an empty husk physically as well as internally, and doubts he could even push the blanket off of himself. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, and he’s aware it’s taking him far too long to even think about Keith’s question. He feels so exhausted—like the sleep he just took actually drained him of any rest rather than gave it. And he’s struggling even now to stay on task and keep assessing himself. His mind just wants to wander away and slide into the endless void inside him and—  
  
“Shiro?”  
  
Right. _Right._ The question. _Focus_. “Here,” Shiro rasps, and he wants to wince at the sound of his own voice.   
  
“How’re you feeling?” Hunk asks. Shiro feels Hunk’s hand against his forehead, and closes his eyes at the gentle touch.   
  
Shiro doesn’t really know how to answer that. He feels bad. But he’s pretty sure that’s not something he would say. Except he thinks maybe he promised to. But he’s not _sure._ He’s not sure, and he doesn’t know, and it’s hard to make his thoughts make an answer.   
  
So he doesn’t, and just tilts his head tiredly to his right, in the direction of his prosthetic. It’s stretched out straight to his right, still lying across the table next to his cot, with metal pieces and wires everywhere. Without thinking he gives another tug on it, trying to pull it back, and only succeeds in another of the knife-sharp sensations in his upper arm as the immobile prosthetic pulls at the remainder of his limb. He lets out a choked noise involuntarily, half pain and half nervousness, as the metal limb’s fingers start tapping anxiously at open air. He can’t move it. Why can’t he move it?  
  
He tries to tug at it again, but Hunk lays a hand, gentle but firm, on his right shoulder to keep him still. “Easy,” he says, in a voice that’s full of patience and soothing calm, “Don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself.”  
  
“I can untie it now that you’re awake, Shiro,” Pidge adds, “But you’ve got to promise not to move it too much, okay? We don’t want you to get any sicker from this thing. We tried to disable anything non-essential to reduce the drain, but still better to play it safe.”   
  
Shiro frowns at that even as Pidge starts picking at some kind of cord bound carefully around his wrist, skillfully avoiding his twitching fingers. “Why did you…” His thoughts give up halfway, and he nods weakly at Pidge’s hands and the cord in them.   
  
“Tie it?” Pidge finishes, frowning. Shiro nods weakly again, and her frown grows deeper as she exchanges uneasy looks with Hunk, Coran, and Keith. “You asked us to. Remember? You were afraid you might accidentally hurt somebody.”   
  
Shiro blinks, and stares at her for a very long moment, trying to process this. It sounds right. Like maybe something he’d do. Pidge wouldn’t lie to him. Neither would the others. After trying to process this, he finally nods slowly, accepting. Watches as she deftly works at the cord around his wrist without disturbing his twitching fingers. The _click click click_ of his metal digits tapping together sounds louder than usual. Familiar. Recent. He frowns. Where has he…?  
  
Sand. Stone. Screaming crowds. Bellow of anger. And that ever-persistent _clicking._   
  
“S’happened before,” he slurs.  
  
“Shiro?”  
  
It’s difficult, but he manages slide his his left arm from beneath the blanket enough to reach for the closest person he can find. It happens to be Keith’s wrist, and he grips it as tightly as he can, trying to convey how _important_ he knows this is. “Happened. Before. _This._ Pretty sure. I think. Remember the noise. In a fight.”  
  
Hunk frowns, and Coran asks carefully, “You remembered something? Do you remember what fixed it?”  
  
“I…” Shiro frowns. Squeezes his eyes shut. Wills himself to remember. But focusing is so _hard_. His thoughts slide away from him so quickly, muddled and unfocused. He knows the answer is _there_ somewhere, but it slips away from him like water in a sieve, no matter how hard he tries to hold on. He remembers _sensations,_ but it’s all so mixed together. There’s the hunger for quintessence, but there’s _real_ hunger too, and pain, and thirst, and fear, and exhaustion. He remembers parts of the fight and he remembers parts of after, but he felt so many things and hurt in so many ways he can’t pinpoint where some pains stopped and others kept going. It’s too _much_ and he just can’t pull it all apart. “I don’t…I can’t…I…’m sorry, I…”  
  
“Hey, it’s okay, Shiro,” Hunk says. His voice sounds almost too gentle as he brushes Shiro’s bangs back again. “It’s not your fault. And that’s already something for us to work with, so you did a good job.”  
  
It doesn’t _feel_ like a good job. He still feels awful, and there’s a feeling of dread in his heart that he can’t exactly place, but it feels too strong when he can barely feel anything else. He’s _missing_ something. It’s something important and he can’t…he _needs_ to…he has to try and…and help, or…remember or… _something…_  
  
God, he’s so _tired._ “ ‘m sorry,” he slurs again, mostly because it seems the right thing to say, and he can’t think of anything better.  
  
“He’s really out of it,” Keith says, sounding worried. Shiro feels his fingers pried gently off Keith’s wrist, but he feels Keith’s hand on the back of his own a moment later. “Why is he so out of it? It’s only been twelve ours this time!”  
  
“The effects are increasing exponentially,” Coran says, and he, too, sounds worried. “Though whether he’s losing the ability to retain foreign quintessence, or whether the drain from the prosthetic is increasing, it’s difficult to say.”   
  
Shiro’s not really sure what all of that means, but from the tone he suspects it’s not good.   
  
Pidge mutters under her breath as she finally pulls the last of the cord off of Shiro’s wrist and sets it aside. He lifts his arm once, just to prove he _can_ again, and then obediently drops it to the table again when Hunk nudges his shoulder gently.   
  
“It’d be better if we could figure out a way to just… _re-fuel_ him using the ship,” Pidge says in frustration.  
  
“And we’ll work on that, don’t you worry,” Coran says. He sounds a little too cheerful to Shiro. “You’ve done more than your fair share of work. We’ll look into our next possible steps.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m ready to go after that nap,” Hunk adds, “and the next parts are more hardware, anyway. It’ll be fine. You really _should_ get some rest while you have the chance. And there’s still plenty of couch space, even with Lance taking up half of it—“  
  
 _“Lance,”_ Shiro interrupts suddenly. He’s not here. And someone else is missing too, someone important—are they okay? They’ve always all been here before, right? Lance had been there before for the quint…quin… _energy_ with…with… _”Allura,”_ he hisses. “Where…”  
  
He tries to sit up. He’s supposed to, he knows. He’s an awful leader for not even realizing two of the team were even _missing,_ but…but he should find them now. Right? That’s what he’s supposed to do. Black paladin. Should do things like that. Lead. Yes.  
  
But his body barely moves, much less lifts, and it’s hard to fight the weight of the blanket, and then Keith places a hand on his chest to push him down gently and it’s over. Shiro stares at him blearily, and Keith says, “It’s fine. They’re both okay. Lance is a lazy ass and he’s been sleeping for like twelve hours straight. You can hear him snoring if you listen. Allura’s taking a nap on the other couch. She swapped out for a bit, but we weren’t expecting you to wake up this early. We’ll have to wake her up for her to transfer you more quintessence. You really need some again.”   
  
Shiro stills at this. Keith wouldn’t lie to him either. And it does sound right. If he focuses _very_ hard he can sort of hear a distant snoring, and if that’s Lance then Keith is probably right about Allura too. Everyone is okay. That’s…that’s good. That’s good then. He didn’t mess up _completely_ at least.  
  
Then the rest of Keith’s words catch up with him, and he frowns. “No more quin….quint…quin…” Why does it have to be such a damn long word? He can barely get his head around it, much less his tongue. “ _Energy._ Done…stealing.”   
  
“You promised, Shiro,” Keith reminds him, with a surprising amount of patience in his tone. “Remember?”  
  
Shiro does. Kind of. Vaguely. But still. “Only if there’s no fix,” he slurs. “s’gotta be something, right?”  
  
“We’ve been trying, Shiro,” Pidge says. He can _hear_ the frustration in her voice, and half-turns, half-flops his head over to look in her direction again. She looks _very_ displeased—he can tell even with his vision sort of blurry—and there are very dark circles under her eyes. “I _did_ find some sort of backup energy source in there, but it’s drained. We’ve been trying to find a way to fill it with energy from the Castle so you could just plug in and charge up. But the only thing that we have that _can_ interface with Galra tech is, well, _your arm_. And we can’t use it to interface with _itself._ It’s a stupid circular loop.”   
  
She scowls angrily. “I did everything I could to try and reverse engineer it. I tried digging through all the codes it uses to interface with Galra computers to try and figure out what it’s doing when we use you to hack in, but we just don’t have a compatible interface for it to work with. I could probably crack it over time, but we don’t exactly have a _lot_ of that at the moment, so…then we figured maybe we could just disable the way this thing fuels itself when we were going in and turning off any excess functions we could find. But it’s so tightly wired into the entire nervous system setup we don’t dare mess with it. Coran thinks it’s got a direct feed to your quintessence too. Trying to turn it off and screwing it up could turn out bad. Really, _really_ bad. I’m sorry, Shiro…”   
  
Her ramble rolls to a halt, and Shiro actually manages to catch the faint shake in her voice at the last few sentences, even if he can’t exactly get his brain around whatever she’s saying. His mind kind of wandered through most of the words. But he picks up enough to know there’s still something wrong, and something worse might happen that they’re scared of.   
  
“S’alright,” he manages after a moment. “I trust you.” He doesn’t need rest or energy or the ability to feel anything to know that much.   
  
Pidge gives him a weak smile, and then offers with a touch of hope, “Coran and Hunk had an idea to see if they can replace the energy this thing uses instead. Y’know, swap it out with a crystal or something instead of…um, you. They don’t really need me for that part, though…and they’ve been nagging me about taking a break for the last hour,” she adds with a glare in the general direction of the two in question. “But since you’re awake, I guess it’s my turn to donate first. Can somebody wake up Allura? We better do this sooner rather than later.”  
  
“I’ll get her,” Keith offers from behind Shiro’s head. Shiro hears the soft scrape of a chair being moved, and quiet footfalls getting more distant.   
  
Then he frowns as he manages to make out the most important part of Pidge’s very long string of words. _“No,”_ he says, very insistently, as insistently as he can. “You can’t. Give energy. That…that was the _rule._ ”   
  
Pidge frowns. “You promised, remember? Like Keith said.”  
  
“But not from _you,_ ” Shiro says. He remembers this part. And there’s so little he remembers right now. It has to be _important,_ right? “Not you. Or Hunk. S’the rule, Pidge and Hunk can’t. Because…” He’s not sure. He’s already struggling enough to stick with this train of thought as it is. His mind is already starting to slip away from it. “Because you can’t.”   
  
Pidge frowns, but it’s Hunk who makes a sympathetic noise, and speaks slowly and patiently enough for Shiro to actually keep up with. “I know you’re not feeling too well, Shiro, but do you remember _why_ Pidge and I couldn’t go first?”  
  
Shiro frowns. Such a hard question. He barely remembers anything and it’s too hard to think on it for long. His mind wanders so easily…  
  
Hunk takes his silence as an answer, though, and goes on patiently. “Lance suggested we shouldn’t go first in case we needed to do some tech stuff for your arm.” He taps the metal forearm gently; Shiro feels the vibrations as his fingers start to _tap-tap-tap_ at the air again. Pidge frowns at the movement, but Hunk keeps going calmly. “But Pidge has to take a break anyway, and she can’t help with this right now. And Keith and Lance already helped and are resting now, so it’s got to be one of us.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Shiro says, trying to force down the ravening hunger and bitter exhaustion in his head to emulate some of his own confidence and…and leader-ness that he can sort of remember from memories. “Don’t need to. I’m fine. Pidge is tired…you should rest. Can’t make you worse. M’fine.” Yes. An order and concern for one of his team all in one. Perfect leadership. Maybe.  
  
Hunk merely raises an eyebrow, and Coran shakes his head as diplomatically as possible, but Pidge outright snorts. “Yeah, no you’re not.”  
  
He sighs tiredly. It was worth a shot.   
  
“Look, Shiro,” Pidge says, a little more coaxingly, “I’m gonna go take a nap anyway, on the couch Lance _hasn’t_ claimed in his name yet. I would be sleeping regardless, right? So I may as well give you my quintessence at the same time. It’s the smartest and most efficient thing to do. Right?”  
  
He’s not sure, actually. There’s quite a few big words in there, and his brain’s not exactly juggling decision making well, either. It’s _hard_. But Pidge…Pidge is the smartest. He knows that much. And if she’s talking about the smartest decision to make, as the smartest…well. Maybe she’s right?   
  
He nods uncertainly. He’ll just…have to trust her. He said he would. He probably should.  
  
“Good choice,” Coran says. “You definitely need more quintessence—I don’t even need the Princess’ abilities to be able to tell. A little bit of energy will leave you feeling much better.”  
  
Shiro can’t really argue with that. Anything has got to make him feel better than he does right now. _Everything_ still hurts. He closes his eyes and wishes he could just sleep, but even on the soft, comfortable cot and assailed with waves of exhaustion constantly, he can’t seem to drift under. The hunger is consuming him. He doesn’t feel like Shiro anymore. He doesn’t feel like anything.  
  
He drifts. He’s not really sure for how long, until he feels light, delicate fingers on his forehead, smoothing back his bangs and pressing a palm against his skin gently. It’s warm and careful and feels good—like the palm holds his spinning thoughts together just a little better. Just enough to make him feel a little less dizzy, to drift a little less. He lets out a soft sigh.   
  
“He’s very ill,” he hears Allura’s voice say from close by after a moment. “It’s a good thing you woke me. You were right—we need to do another transfer of quintessence _now_. Pidge, Keith said you were volunteering?”   
  
“Yes. And I already know the drill. Here.”  
  
Shiro hears the rustle of cloth, and a few moments later he feels the first wisps of energy on the edge of his consciousness. They’re weak little trickles, but to Shiro it’s like being offered a few table scraps after starving for weeks. His mind and body and soul scratch for it ravenously, desperate and greedy and _hungry_. He feels like sobbing when it disappears into the void inside him instead, little bright green wisps disappearing into the darkness.  
  
But the flow of energy increases. And while much of it still disappears into that gaping black wound inside of him, he’s able to reach out with a trembling, energy-starved sense of self and take some of it. And it feels incredible—it feels like _life_. Like they’ve breathed something human back into his withered husk and made him _real_ again. He feels a little more strength again, in his limbs and his thoughts and his core. He _feels_ again, at all. He finds the strength to flutter his eyes open for a few moments and his color is duller, but it’s there again.   
  
But it’s not _enough_ , not even now. It’s a tantalizing little taste of what it means to be _alive_ again, but it’s not going to last. He can already feel it sloughing off of him into the void again, and it _hurts_ to feel so alive and then so empty and dead in just the span of a few moments. He reaches for more, and is at last rewarded when the void is finally sated—for the moment—and that energy trickles to him instead. Again he finds strength, feeling, thought, color.   
  
But the flow of quintessence starts to slow, energy slipping from a flood to a trickle, and Shiro feels a new edge of desperation in his mind. No, no, no, it can’t stop yet, it can’t, he’s still so _empty_ , so _starving_ , so _tired,_ he’s not better, it’s not enough—he’s stronger but it won’t last—he’s not _alive_ yet, he needs _life_ , he needs it—  
  
He reaches, tries to pull at the last trailing wisps of energy for more. Something blocks him, gentle but firm and unrelentingly strong, and distantly he feels the palm on his forehead pressing a little harder. But he needs it. He’s _starving._ Something primal in him claws more wildly at the barrier, desperate to _survive survive survive_ , and very far away he feels his right arm jerk, hears a metal crash, hears something snap. Hears yelling.   
  
_Survive. Fight._ _Live!_  
  
He struggles, throws himself mentally against the internal barrier until his exhausted mind feels bruised and bleeding, but he can’t break it; someone is stopping him. That primal part of him grows more wild, more desperate. There’s a way to survive _right there_ if he can just reach it, he just has to _fight_ , fight _harder,_ and he can feel his mind flick towards his greatest weapon, feel the grind of metal fingers as they close tightly into a fist, feel the instinctive way he concentrates on the power there, on—  
  
He feels… _curiosity._ Interest in what his own mind is doing, that jolts his focus out of alignment out of sheer surprise. Intrigue and excitement, watching, waiting, wanting to understand everything, determination to find answers in all things, even the unknown. Especially the unknown. He feels _stubbornness,_ a refusal to back away from that primal, starved piece of himself, no matter how dangerous it might be to get too close, and with it a stubborn dedication to do right by those close to him to matter the cost. He feels _adventurousness_ , a wildness that matches the survivor in him, but with an excitement for life and adventure and the unknown that that primal part of him can’t fathom in its struggle to just live. And he feels cleverness, a quick mind and quick thoughts that can dismantle any problem and bring down any enemy, a slyness and cunning that is always underestimated and never, ever should be.  
  
This is _Pidge._ This is Pidge’s mind, her essence, her _soul,_ and he can feel it with him now, flickering green quintessence that trails up and away past the barrier and to—  
  
Shiro’s eyes fly open, and in his mind he’s _screaming_. It’s _Pidge’s_ quintessence he’s been struggling for. Even now he can still feel that ravenous hunger for energy, as that primal thing inside him claws and screeches and _fights_ , starving and terrified and desperate to take anything it needs to survive. But that’s _Pidge._ That’s his friend, his teammate, his _family_. He’s _already_ taken too much and he’s fighting for _more._ What the hell is wrong with him?  
  
 _I will not,_ he snarls internally to himself, and he forcibly fights himself back. It’s a struggle—like dying of thirst in the desert, and throwing away a canteen of water after just a few sips. But it’s a canteen he _stole_ , and he will _not_ force someone else to suffer the same things as him because he can’t control himself. Pidge’s loaned stubbornness, and vicious dedication to those important to her, is ultimately what helps him to beat back his own desperate _hunger_ in order to protect her. It’s so difficult, one of the hardest things he’s ever done, but eventually he’s able to let go, let the last bits of quintessence slip away from him. The hand on his forehead pulls away, and Shiro sags in exhaustion.  
  
He still feels awful—starved and exhausted and weak—but he’s not taking his team down with him. Not Pidge, and not anyone else. He’d rather die first.   
  
He realizes his eyes are still open, and he’s staring blankly at the ceiling; can see the shocked and worried and _scared_ faces of his teammates. In the distance he can hear Lance cursing up a storm and asking what the hell is going on, and closer Keith giving a snappish explanation. He can feel the mice creeping tentatively closer again, and realizes they must have bolted away in the moment he lost control. He feels a sharp throb in his right arm, what’s left of it. He doesn’t know what caused it, and he’s almost afraid to look.   
  
But Pidge’s quintessence overrides that fear. It needs _answers_. It wants to understand all the pieces, even if they might be frightening. So he forces himself to turn his head to the right anyway, guided by that curiosity. And with Pidge’s quintessence giving him more strength in his mind and heart again as well, he has it in him to feel stunned again at what he sees.   
  
The table his arm had been stretched out on is broken. Half of it rests awkwardly against the cot, with his metal arm draped over the jagged pieces, and the other half is out of sight, presumably on the floor. The pieces and tools that had been scattered over the table are gone, scattered on the floor and the edges of the cot. There’s an awful smell like burned plastic. It takes Shiro longer than it should to realize the smell is coming from his metal palm, which is clenched so tightly around a broken edge of the table he can feel a piece of it crumbling and grinding in his grip. It takes nearly all of his remaining concentration to unfold his fingers from it, and the crushed pieces tumble free, crumpled and singed black in a number of places.   
  
He stares at his hand for a moment, and then weakly raises his head to look for Pidge. She’s still there, leaning against Hunk, who has an arm carefully around her back to keep her steady. She looks even worse before, drooping and exhausted, the dark lines under her eyes even more pronounced. She sways slightly on her feet, and Coran hastily uprights one of the knocked-over stools for Hunk to sit her down on.   
  
It all sends an awful stab of guilt through Shiro’s heart, and it’s so much worse now that he can sort of feel again. This is _his fault_. He could have killed her and it would have been the _same_ _way_ he’s been dying slowly and he can’t accept that. “Sorry,” he says, throat rasping and thick with guilt more than sickness. “I’m so sorry, Pidge…I didn’t mean to—I’m so sorry, I—“  
  
“Shiro,” she interrupts him. Her voice is so soft and filled with tiredness, and he can’t quite see her eyes at first because of the way her head hangs, but the word cuts through all the noise like a knife. Even Lance’s demands to know what the hell is going on are silenced.   
  
Shiro listens with every bit of concentration he has, and the green quintessence seems to increase his focus significantly. He deserves whatever lectures she’s about to give him. He deserves so much worse than that. The only thing he doesn’t deserve is the right to their help, after all the mess he’s caused—  
  
But Pidge interrupts his mental tirade. She raises her head and looks him in the eye, and even if she looks half dead from exhaustion and he _knows_ thinking and feeling has got to be hard for her, her expression is determined and confident—not afraid or disgusted like it should be. “Don’t you dare apologize for that again. It’s _okay_ , Shiro. I know you’re really sick and you’e not feeling like yourself. Literally, even. You’re _starving_. I get it. Better _now_ than just a few minutes ago, even. I know you would _never_ try to hurt me on purpose. We _all_ know that. So it’s okay. You just focus on hanging on and letting us help you get better.”  
  
And Pidge’s quintessence, as if in agreement with its former owner, stubbornly protests his guilt with its overwhelming loyalty to family and determination to do everything it can right by them. Shiro is almost overwhelmed by that resolve, that need to save those closest at any cost, and by the fact that he’s a _part_ of that. The guilt doesn’t fade, not completely, but it’s…it’s harder to focus on, with Pidge’s quintessence so thoroughly distracting him.   
  
“She’s absolutely right,” Allura agrees. Shiro blinks and glances up at her, standing over his head. She looks worn out too, not as badly as Pidge but definitely not her usual prim and proper self, and Shiro wonders how much this is wearing on her, too. He doubts she was ever intended to use her abilities to act like a charger for a weak, sickly human. His guilt tries to push forward again, but Pidge’s quintessence wrangles it stubbornly back.   
  
“I am sorry we had to distress you like that,” she continues, “but I assure you I had it under control. If anything, I am the one who should apologize. I should have anticipated how difficult it would be for you after Keith explained how the effects are strengthening, especially having witnessed your first reaction to the crystal. I should have prepared for that. You have nothing to apologize for.” She sounds every inch a royal princess, giving a command that she expects to be obeyed. Shiro almost wants to, except he knows he has plenty to apologize for. (Pidge’s quintessence loudly objects, and pushes more of its determination and loyalty and sense of _family_ at him to force away his guilt).   
  
“How are you feeling?” Hunk asks. His tone is neutral but his expression seems worried, Shiro thinks. Hard to tell exactly. The question is hard too. He doesn’t really feel _full_ this time, not like he had with Keith’s quintessence, or even Lance’s. He can still feel that emptiness in him, that ravening hunger for something that’s not food, that overwhelming exhaustion. Thinking still takes longer, and his thoughts churn slowly, not jumbled quite yet but not as fast as they should be, especially with the assistance of Pidge’s clever quintessence. His colors are back but they’re not as vibrant as they should be, either. Pidge’s shirt is a duller green, and Coran’s uniform is closer to gray than blue. But he is better than he _was_. He doesn’t feel like something dead anymore…just like something getting there.  
  
He doesn’t answer, but he must look terrible enough to have answered anyway, because because Pidge and Hunk frown. Coran coughs politely, and then says, “Well, perhaps a little food then, and some water. Got to keep your strength up with more than just pure energy, you know. I can make you a healthy meal if you like…”  
  
But food holds no interest for Shiro right now, and _Coran’s_ food actually makes him feel queasy. “No,” he says, with a shake of his head that sends the room spinning a little. “No food. Not…not right now. Should work on this thing. Don’t waste time.” He twitches his prosthetic’s fingers, where the arm is still draped awkwardly over the broken table. It’s starting to strain his arm a little, what’s left of it, but he doesn’t feel he has any right to complain about it when he’s the one that put himself in that position in the first place, so he doesn’t.   
  
Pidge’s quintessence seems torn, for a moment, caught between loyally trying to push away his guilt and self-punishment, but too intrigued at the prospect of investigating the prosthetic further to push hard. Shiro has the bewildering sensation of _not_ dreading or even feeling nervous about having his arm examined, because like all the other quintessences, it isn’t as though the green quintessence is its own separate entity. They’re _his thoughts_. It seems wrong, and he knows logically it’s not something he would ever think himself, but at the same time it’s _him_ that’s developing interest in the examination, encouraged but not controlled by Pidge’s own soul. If he didn’t still feel so tired and weak, it would be disorienting.   
  
Coran looks disappointed, and the others vaguely worried. “Fine,” Keith says finally, and Shiro turns his head to look at him, “But I’m getting you some water. You need it.” And he vacates his seat to disappear through the lounge doorway, on a mission.  
  
His seat is claimed almost immediately by Lance, who’s still yawning as he says, “You guys gotta wake me next time you have a party.”   
  
“Not much of a party,” Pidge grouses back at him. “Besides, it was a science party. You hate science.”   
  
“Right. You gotta wake me up to make it more interesting next time.” Lance yawns again. “Anyway, speaking of sleep, you look like you’re gonna fall over. Couch is still nice and warm, Pidge…”  
  
“Not you too. I get it, I get it,” Pidge sighs. She gives Shiro one last stern look. “I mean it. Just try to work on feeling better, okay? That’s all that matters.”   
  
Shiro _wants_ to say he’s sorry again anyway, and that _they_ matter too. But that guilt breaks his thoughts from the prosthetic, and when it’s not distracted anymore, Pidge’s quintessence fights back the urge for him, and instead he merely nods. She takes this as agreement, and wanders out of his line of sight to wrap up on the couch and snuggle in for a long nap.  
  
“You look like you could use a good nap too,” Lance adds, giving Shiro a look that’s more laced with concern than Shiro thinks he really deserves, at this point.   
  
“Not until he drinks a little,” Keith says, as he returns with a full glass of water in hand. “He needs to stay hydrated or he’s gonna get sick on top of all this.”   
  
The thought of drinking anything is almost as repulsive to his stomach as eating, but Shiro understands the necessity at least. He struggles to sit up, but even when enhanced with Pidge’s quintessence, his limbs don’t have the strength in them this time to manage pushing his body up fully. Hunk helps pull him up, and Allura splays one palm out between his shoulder blades to keep him upright. Coran ducks in to his right once Shiro’s upright and his prosthetic drags along the blankets instead, unobtrusively removing the shattered remains of the table. The mice bounce out of the way while Shiro is moved, and then perch on his knees when he’s upright, watching curiously.   
  
It’s frustrating and embarrassing to need help with something as stupidly simple as _sitting,_ and it’s appalling how little strength Shiro has in his body even after another quintessence re-infusion. At least he’s able to manage the glass in his left hand—he doesn’t trust his right, after what it did to the table. He might be weakened even when re-infused, but Pidge’s quintessence seems to grant him at least a little increased dexterity, enough to assist him with a simple task like drinking. His hand shakes slightly when he takes the cup from Keith, but he’s able to handle a few sips on his own before he pushes it away, spent. Keith seems disappointed with how little he manages to drink, but Shiro doesn’t have it in him for more.   
  
He’s dizzy and exhausted by the time they help him lay back down, but he can’t find sleep again. Coran disappears to find another table, and Hunk starts cleaning up the scattered mess of parts and table chunks on the floor with Allura’s help. Shiro can tell they’re trying to be quiet for his sake, but he can still hear them talking to each other quietly and the clink and thump of debris, and the noise doesn’t help. Pidge’s curiosity makes him too interested in trying to figure out what’s going on around him, even if Shiro is too tired to focus on any one thing for long.  
  
“You should really try to sleep now,” Lance says from his other side. Shiro turns his head the other way weakly. Lance is slumped forward over the cot, resting his elbows on the blankets with a tired, worried expression on his face. Keith is standing behind him, arms crossed, also looking concerned.   
  
“Can’t,” Shiro slurs, before he realizes what he’s saying. “Can’t get deep enough. Not sure I should. She’ll be waiting…”   
  
Lance and Keith actually exchange glances, before Keith asks slowly, “She?”  
  
Shit. He’d really said that out loud, hadn’t he. His mind is stronger than it was a few minutes ago, especially with Pidge’s quintessence charging it, but it’s still too slow on the uptake, doesn’t know what to hide. But they’re watching him too intently now, and he can’t escape it, so he says tiredly, “Haggar.”  
  
“The creepy witch lady?” Lance asks incredulously. “Tell her to buzz off! No one should mess with a guy’s sleep, how rude…”   
  
Lance’s tone is nonchalant, but his eyes are hard even when still waking up, and beside him Keith looks furious. They both seem defensive, angry on his behalf. It almost feels familiar. He knows he’s used up all their quintessence they gave him, burned it up and melted it away, but they’re still _here_ with him, and that’s comforting. It’s less alarming to think about going down into the dark again. And maybe Pidge will be with him this time too, although the thought of forcing Pidge to face down Haggar in the darkness is not a pleasant one. He wishes there was another way.   
  
Coran returns with a new table and carefully sets it up alongside the cot again. He and Hunk arrange their tools, and Shiro turns to watch with unfocused but growing curiosity, no doubt thanks to Pidge’s quintessence. It doesn’t take them long to arrange everything, and then they glance at Shiro—and more specifically his prosthetic—a little uneasily. They seem content to wait until he’s asleep again for his own sake. But to Shiro’s own surprise he stretches his metal arm out over the table towards them again, slow and careful, giving them silent permission to get back to work.  
  
Hunk frowns. “We can wait, Shiro. At least until you fall asleep again. It’s the closest to sedation we can get right now…”  
  
“It’s fine,” Shiro finds himself saying. “Faster we get answers….faster this is over.”   
  
Hunk hesitates, but finally nods. “Okay. But let us know if you need a break, okay?”  
  
Shiro nods, and they get to work. It’s not…as unsettling as it usually is, to have people digging around inside his limb, fake though it may be. The interest from before, at just the _thought_ of examining the prosthetic, seems to have increased tenfold now. Pidge’s quintessence seems to quash the nerves and the unease he usually feels, and replaces it with interest and excitement, a thirst to _understand_ that’s nearly as strong as his thirst for quintessence. He finds himself staring quietly as Coran and Hunk carefully detach the first of the metal panels just above his elbow, closer to the sensitive point where flesh meets metal, and he doesn’t feel fear or unease or concern. Just curiosity. Just interest.  
  
“Maybe you shouldn’t watch,” Keith says from behind him. He sounds uneasy. “It might just…upset you.” Lance makes a noise of agreement.   
  
But Shiro shakes his head—weakly, wincing at the dizziness that churns in his skull at the motion. “No,” he says after a moment. “No, I….I want to watch. This time.” And Pidge’s quintessence whispers in excitement, and almost seems to say, _what’s next, what’s next? What’s he doing?_   
  
He tries to follow along, but it’s complicated, and his mind is too slow and messed up at this point to really understand. His Pidge-fueled curiosity grows frustrated at this—it wants to _know_ , it needs to _understand_ —and after five minutes he wearily asks, “S’that you’re doing, Hunk?”  
  
Hunk blinks in surprise, and says hesitantly, “Uh…we’re trying to identify which piece in here filters quintessence from…um…you. Are you okay? We’re not hurting you, are we? We can stop—“  
  
“No, no,” Shiro slurs. “It’s okay. Keep going. Not hurting. Just…want to know.”   
  
Hunk looks a little bemused, but after a moment grows a little less hesitant with handling the prosthetic again. “Okay. Well. Let us know. Um…but yeah, we’re trying to find the parts that filter and translate quintessence into fuel for the prosthetic. We know the starting point is tied into the nervous system so we can’t risk just disabling that, but if we can find something further downstream in the process and supplement it with another source, like a crystal, maybe we can give it something else to fuel itself with.”   
  
Hunk’s voice grows a little more confident as he talks, and he occasionally pauses to point out a little detail here or there as he and Coran very carefully poke through the prosthetic. Shiro tries to follow it, he really does—it’s almost disconcerting how weirdly fascinating he finds the topic of his prosthetic right now, and how not bothered he is by them reaching their hands inside his limb to rearrange things. It should _terrify_ him that they’re working with parts so hooked into his nervous system and the very core of his sense of self that they could permanently damage his body or soul with an accidental misstep, but he finds his mind trying to drift towards finding a solution to the puzzle instead.   
  
Not that he’s any use at it. He doesn’t really have the aptitude for it even on a good day, and is not a good day. It hasn’t been a good day for a long time. But he tries, and it’s a better alternative to nervousness and panic at the thought of people towering over him and messing with his arm. And Hunk’s voice is rhythmic and soothing, the way it keeps going, soft and steady and patient, and he finds himself starting to drift. He wants to know more, wants to listen, wants to _learn_ , but his eyelids are so heavy and the fatigue hasn’t left him yet, and…  
  
The last thing he remembers feeling is softness and warmth as the mice curl up against him again. He swears the last thing he hears is _laughter,_ sharp and cackling and filled with an insidious, harsh _I told you so_ , and for a moment he twitches away from sleep as it comes to claim him. But then Hunk’s solid, calming voice rolls over him again, and he drifts deeper into the warmth and the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI guys—I’m gonna try really hard to post tomorrow, but I may not be able to. I’m helping a family member tomorrow and I'm not sure how long it'll take. I’ll try to post something, but I also am not going to rush to post it if it’s getting late. Next chapter is pretty pivotal and I don’t want to ruin it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay guys! Got home super late yesterday and just wanted to crawl into bed. BUT I AM RESTED NOW so let's get this party started.
> 
> (Some blood and bad language in this one, FYI)

* * *

 

“Stars are only visible in darkness,  
Fear is ever-changing and evolving,  
And I have been poisoned inside,  
But I, I feel so alive!”  
~Battlecry, Imagine Dragons

* * *

  
 _He’s back in the blackness, the deepest darkness in his own head that overwhelms everything and lets nothing escape. He’s familiar with it now, though, which is unfortunate in a way, but also gives him an advantage. He knows what hides in the dark. He may have an ally here, if he’s lucky, but he needs to find it before his enemy does._  
  
 _And Haggar always seems to know exactly where he is and exactly when he arrives._  
  
 _He turns and runs this time, remembering the last suggestion Lance’s quintessence had given him. He can’t see where he’s going, but if he keeps moving, maybe he can avoid_ her _entirely. Find a place to hide, find a safe haven in his own head, and hole up there until he’s low on quintessence again. Maybe he won’t find any more memories then._  
  
 _But his attempts to escape are in vain. He hears the rustle of fabric in the darkness, and a harsh cackle of laughter, and Haggar’s yellow eyes loom out of the blackness to his left. She reaches for him, and he crashes to his knees and rolls to avoid her claw-like fingers, stumbling back to his feet and changing direction._  
  
 _But Haggar is there too, laughing at his bumbling, pathetic efforts to get away, and she reaches for him again. Shiro jerks away from her hand, but he can feel Haggar behind him as well, hear the rustle of her robes and her harsh cackle, and he can’t get_ away _from her—_  
  
 _He has one direction left, and he bolts for it, struggling through the blackness where he can’t see anything unless Haggar_ lets _him. He’s at her mercy, and he fully expects her to burst out of the darkness in front of him, reaching for him, yellow eyes wide and_ hungry _and malicious—_  
  
 _But she doesn’t. She doesn’t, and the others, the clones or illusions or_ whatever _they are…they don’t follow, either._  
  
 _Stunned, Shiro spins around, and finds he can_ see _through the darkness now, back the way he came. There are three druids, all of them reaching for him, but they don’t come after him; it’s like they’re rooted to the spot. He can see a faint glow of green at their feet. Even as he watches, something bursts out of the shadowy not-quite-ground like a snapping whip, wrapping around the nearest Haggar’s wrist and pulling tight, dragging it down to her side._  
  
 _Shiro stares. The substance is green, a bright, glittering color that illuminates and shines like life in the gloom. It’s got the smokey texture of quintessence, but it’s stretched out in a thin, ropey shape, like someone has managed to spin mist into the strongest cord in the world. More of the energy strands burst from the ground and curl around Haggar and her illusions, wrapping tightly, and Shiro has the sudden impression of watching vines growing at an alarming rate over and around anything in their path._  
  
 _And he can feel the first touches of something else at his mind. Cleverness and adventurousness and wit, and closer still,_ stronger _still, a fierce loyalty, and an aggressive drive to protect what’s important._ Never again, _it almost seems to say, savage and determined, as the vines crawl higher._ You can never have my family again. Get lost. Now.   
  
_The quintessence vines finish growing, slipping up and around Haggar’s shoulders and neck to her face, where they wrap around her eyes like a blindfold. The illusions receive the same treatment, bound in place. And although Haggar hisses in anger and tries to free herself savagely, the quintessence doesn’t relent. Instead, it_ squeezes, _like a constrictor with captured prey. Haggar struggles, but after a moment lets out an enraged shriek as she and her illusions crumble into shadow and vanish._  
  
 _She’s gone for the moment, but Shiro knows she’ll be back. He peers into the gloom and spins in a circle, searching for the tell-tale glitter of yellow in the dark, listening for the cackle, waiting for the acrid scent of smoke and spellcraft._  
  
 _But the quintessence seems to have other ideas. Shiro watches as the vines of smokey energy seem to slip back into the shadowy ground, and then the presence he felt before seems to grow stronger around him. That fierce determination and loyalty is still there, but the cleverness and wit is stronger now, too. It feels_ knowing _, almost smug with success, confident in its ability to defeat their enemy with brains just as much as brawn._  
  
 _And to Shiro’s surprise, the air around him seems to change, warping in a five foot radius all around him. It shimmers like air on a hot day, and he finds he has trouble tracking it with his eyes; his gaze seems to slip away if he doesn’t focus on paying attention. It always seems to move, and he can never quite focus on it fully. He can feel the quintessence shifting with it, constantly moving, ever adjusting, with lightning fast, clever little fixes to strengthen the…whatever it is…even further._  
  
 _Haggar’s eyes glitter in the dark as she reappears, and steps out of the blackness into view. She glares hatefully into the dark, eyes sweeping, searching. Her eyes meet with Shiro’s, and for a moment he feels cold dread grip at his heart. But her eyes move on, searching the darkness around him, and he realizes with sudden clarity that_ she can’t see him. _She doesn’t know Shiro is there, because he’s cloaked somehow. And if she can’t find him, she can’t drag him into the dark._  
  
 _He feels stunned, and he can almost feel the quintessence—_ Pidge’s _quintessence—all but grinning smugly at his reaction. And it all makes so much_ sense. _Pidge can be nearly as aggressive as Keith when it’s called for, and her quintessence had certainly proved it. But more than anything Pidge is a master of stealth—of staying unseen, of hiding in plain sight. She has always used those skills to win and to support her teammates, and her strengths are what’s saving Shiro right now, too. Like the other quintessences, this one never takes a different form—indeed, this one is nearly invisible now, unlike the others—but he can all but see Pidge standing next to him, sneaky little smile on her face as she adjusts her glasses and watches the increasingly frustrated Haggar outside their little shelter._  
  
 _Pidge’s quintessence seems pleased with his impressed feelings, and hums around him, always moving, always adjusting the illusion. Haggar’s eyes sweep across them again, and Shiro feels fear, for a moment; but the quintessence soothes it away with its own confidence and stealthiness._  
  
Rest easy, _it seems to say._ It’s safe for now. I’ll hide you.   
  
_And it does. The air around him shimmers like the camouflage mode Pidge is so fond of installing in their vehicles, but this cloaking isn’t limited to a mere minute and a half like it is in the Green Lion or the pods. It doesn’t disappear suddenly, and Shiro is safe inside of it, away from glittering yellow eyes._  
  
 _And there are a lot of glittering yellow eyes. Haggar is everywhere again, her and her illusions surrounding them unwittingly, ever searching. Haggar seems to glide more than walk as she and her dozens of duplicates roam the area, claws flexing like she’s desperate to bury them into flesh, eyes filled with malice. None of the druids laugh anymore. They look furious._  
  
 _And Shiro can still feel his heart stop and ice crawl up his spine every time her eyes sweep past him, meeting his for even half a second. Every time he wonders if she’ll see him this time, if her spells will let her break illusions as easily as she makes them. Every time one of her forms passes nearly too close to the shimmering barrier, close enough to reach out and touch it if she so chooses, he finds himself holding his breath._  
  
 _But they never find him, and Pidge’s quintessence is always with him, sneaky and clever and sure. It soothes his nerves when Haggar gets too close to breaking them, and distracts him from his worries with bright questions and witty thoughts. It’s hard to be scared or nervous with Pidge’s quintessence constantly redirecting his attention, making him think of better things and more interesting times. And gradually Haggar starts to dig into his mind less, and his heart’s thudding slows, and he feels some of the quintessence’s confidence becoming his own. He doesn’t feel restful, exactly, not like with the others; he doesn’t have a chance to dream, and his mind drifts more than sleeps. But he feels safer, at least._  
  
 _But he knows it won’t last. It never does, and it’s only a matter of time. And eventually Pidge’s quintessence starts to slow, its lightning-fast thoughts dulling to match Shiro’s own. Its constant movement around him slows as well, and the shimmering mirage wall seems to grow still, its constant adjusting becoming sluggish and less responsive. It flickers, once, twice, and then disappears completely. He can feel raw disappointment and frustration from Pidge’s quintessence as its plan finally fails._  
  
 _Haggar’s gaze passes over Shiro again. And he knows the moment she really_ sees _him this time, because her eyes flick to a sudden halt, and she stares right at him, and_ smiles. _Shiro feels dread in the pit of his stomach that Pidge’s quintessence doesn’t have the strength to brush away now, and he takes a frantic step back._  
  
 _And then Haggar is just_ there.   
  
_She bursts out of the dark a foot in front of him in a blast of smoke and ash, and reaches for his head. Shiro takes another jerking step back, and the tip of Haggar’s claw-like fingers drag a new trail of blood from the scar on his face, but she doesn’t manage to grab hold._  
  
 _In his head, Pidge’s quintessence seems to snarl in tired rage. It feels almost the same as that time so long ago now, when she was furious at him for attacking her brother, before either of them knew what had really happened. Only now that fury is directed at Haggar—and with the last pieces of itself that are left, Pidge’s quintessence makes one final strike. Smokey quintessence vines burst from the ground at their feet again and tangle Haggar’s robes, wrap around her wrists, crawl up her shoulders and squeeze at her neck._  
  
 _But there’s no strength to them anymore, and Haggar isn’t even slowed as she snaps one of her wrists free. Her claw-like hand glows purple and digs into the vines wrapped around her chest and shoulders, and there’s an awful ripping sound as she tears them free and the smokey vines snap in half. The dulled green bleeds away into gray, and the vines seem to wither, crumbling into ash as Haggar tosses them aside._  
  
 _And once again, only Shiro is left to face down Haggar in his mind._  
  
 _She smiles at him, and raises one clawed hand, slow and calm. She has no need to rush, now—she knows he’s alone and has no protection, no way to hide, no way to escape. It’s only a matter of time before he’s hers again._  
  
 _Shiro knows it as well, but he’s not going to give up as easily as that. He wishes he could say it was from something as noble as refusing to give up a good fight no matter what, or to do right by everything Pidge’s quintessence had just done to protect him. But the fact of the matter is he’s just scared as hell and he doesn’t want anything to do with her. And he will do whatever he has to in order to get away._  
  
 _He smashes her hand aside with his metal arm, flinging it out wide. She seems surprised that he even bothers to fight back, and before she can react he bolts to his left, running not with purpose or a plan or any sense of preparation, but just to get away, just to_ survive _—_  
  
 _—and she’s there in front of him again, so close he nearly crashes into her, and she laughs as she plunges one clawed hand into his chest._  
  
 _He screams. He can’t not. He can feel her digging deeper and deeper still, tracing ice cold fingers across his bones and lungs and reaching for his heart. He tries to grasp her wrist, force her away, but his metal arm doesn’t answer him and his natural one is too weak to do more than brush against her skin, and he hurts_ so bad _, everything inside of him feels frozen over and his blood is too hot as it hisses over his frozen insides and drips over her fingers and into the black abyss around him, his heart is so cold it burns and he doesn’t have anything left to be taken and_ still _she digs further, grinning wildly, and he wants to scream again but he can’t because she’s stolen his breath his blood his mind his soul everything and—_  
  
 _—and he wakes in his cell, knowing today is another battle day. He can feel it in his bones and in the tension and excitement of his living Galra guards._  
  
 _He doesn’t know how long he’s been a prisoner, now. Time is meaningless here, counted only by the number of battles. He knows he isn’t required to fight every day, and that sometimes as long as a full week will pass before he’s thrown into the ring. Other times they’ll have him fight several battles in succession on the same day, just to throw him for a loop and keep him on his toes._  
  
 _It doesn’t really matter, in the end. He always wins, one way or another._  
  
 _But it’s all becoming a blur, and he doesn’t know how long it’s been since Kerberos, since the last time he saw another human being. Since home. He still wants to go home so badly—to find a way to escape, to smash his way out of this endless, eternal cycle, to return to Earth and warn everyone about the dangers outside their precious little solar system._  
  
 _And he still devotes whatever time and energy he can scrape together to doing so, always watching, always waiting for the right moment. He watches the sentries through his cell door’s tiny peephole, timing their rotations with careful finger taps to simulate seconds. He memorizes when the real, living Galra guards are on duty and what their jobs are, learns which ones are smarter and more observant, remembers which ones are easier to goad or fool. He pays careful attention every time he’s moved outside of his cell and around the ship, for battles or testing with the druids or questioning, and remembers every minute detail, every twist and turn, every potential exit._  
  
 _But he battles, too. He has no choice. If he doesn’t fight, he dies, and if he dies, he can’t warn Earth, can’t go_ home. _And each gladiator fight adds to his victories and becomes more ingrained in his routine, until his very existence revolves around them._  
  
 _At first it’s because he doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter. He leaves his cell one way or another, willingly with a gun at his back or forcibly dragged by the sentries. He ends up in the arena regardless of what kind of opponent he fights that day. And he wins no matter who his opponent is—because letting the weak ones continue in the ring is a crime that will end in a violent death, and because the strong ones will slaughter him if he doesn’t, and it’s_ all _about survival then._  
  
 _But the dynamic starts to_ change _, after a while. Shiro doesn’t notice it at first—he’s too focused on making it through another day, and then if he has the spare energy, he’s too focused on finding a way out of here. He doesn’t know how long it takes, because the passage of time is difficult to measure, but he thinks it’s around the vicinity of something like twenty battles since he got his prosthetic against his will._  
  
 _But he does notice when one of his living guards almost gleefully taunts him about going up against Zerik the Savage, a wild and bloodthirsty gladiator responsible for the deaths of dozens of slaves and even a handful of experienced gladiator combatants. Because he doesn’t feel fear, then—he feels relief, and deep down, the first thrill of an almost frenzied excitement._  
  
 _And that scares the hell out of Shiro._  
  
 _He pays closer attention to himself after that, after soundly defeating Zerik in the ring and permanently removing him from the gladiator roster. (He doesn’t regret it. Dozens of dead slaves were on his hands. They could have been Matt, or any of the weaker, inexperienced, terrified challengers Shiro has stood next to or come up against. The bastard didn’t deserve to live)._  
  
 _And he notices the pattern, once he knows to look for it. Because he doesn’t look forward to every fight. He doesn’t often know who he’ll be up against before he’s pushed out into the ring and sees the opponent staring back at him, and it’s hard to anticipate. But whenever he sees the weak, exhausted, fearful, terrified slaves and captives standing across from him, holding their swords or guns or crossbows awkwardly without any familiarity, he feels…disappointed. Bored. Tired. He knows he has a duty to them, even if they don’t realize it—he knows he’ll defeat them as quickly and as painlessly as possible, make them useless as a gladiator while sparing their lives. A labor colony might not be the kindest of places to send them, but it’s better than being slowly torn apart or eaten or tortured in the arena by its often sadistic combatants._  
  
 _But those fights never feel fulfilling. It’s strange, almost, because Shiro knows he’s doing good work there, knows he’s resisting Zarkon and Haggar and the Galra at every opportunity here. He can see it in the way the prisoners he fights go wide-eyed and sob or whimper with relief, and whisper their thanks for sparing their lives even as he pins them down or breaks their limbs or slices their tendons. He knows it every time his rations are reduced for misbehaving in the ring._  
  
 _He_ knows _he’s doing the right thing, by all accounts, but he never feels that warm sense of satisfaction, or that burning feeling of pure spite. Mostly, he just feels cold inside. Those fights always leave him feeling sick and weak and more tired than when he started, even if he never exerts himself terribly and they are, technically speaking, the easiest fights to win. Those fights always leave him feeling hungry, because he knows he has to do the right thing but he also knows he’ll be punished for it, and leave the arena starving when he should be rewarded with extra rations for winning. And every time it’s one of_ those _opponents that step into the arena across from him, he just feels disappointed and tired and a little sick to his stomach that it isn’t someone better. At the thought of having to face down another innocent being that doesn’t deserve to be here._  
  
 _But the wilder fights, the ones against the more dangerous gladiator opponents, the ones known for being savage and bloodthirsty, the ones that enjoy toying with and murdering slaves and captives even though they clearly stand no chance…_ those _are the fights Shiro looks forward to._  
  
 _He doesn’t have a death wish. He knows full well how dangerous those opponents are, and that there is a very high chance that he could enter that arena and never leave it again. He knows there’s a very good chance each time he faces down one of those expert combatants that he’ll never see home again, that his countless hours of watching sentries and memorizing floor plans will ultimately be for nothing. He knows his death, if it comes, may not come quickly, because Champion has a reputation and his opponents will be desperate to desecrate it, drawing out his suffering and proving their superiority if they can._  
  
 _He knows all of it. But he also knows the thrill of_ victory _is so strong every time he_ does _win. And he wants that. He_ needs _that. He feels more alive, has more of a sense of purpose, a sense of_ self _, every time he wins a match against the wildest, deadliest opponents. He doesn’t feel like himself when he faces down the innocent slaves and prisoners, even if he’s staying true to his morals and his humanity, because he’s still trapped in a situation neither of them wants and he’s still abusing his strength to hurt them. But against the deadly gladiators he can truly unleash his strength, fight as hard as he can to survive, and do it without a sense of reluctance or regret. Many of them deserve whatever injuries he manages to land on them, after the truly reprehensible things they’ve done in the ring out of pure enjoyment and excitement. He doesn’t pull his punches, he doesn’t try to save them, and if it comes to it, he’ll put them down permanently for what they’ve done._  
  
 _And he feels_ alive _again when he does. These fights are the most difficult, and by the end he’ll be breathing hard and bruised and bleeding and his muscles will be shaking from exertion, but he feels like he’s alive in the greatest sense of the word. He feels tired, but it’s a good kind of tired, the kind that lets you collapse into bed after a hard day’s work. His hunger seems to vanish, now that he knows he’ll be soundly fed with his extra ration rewards for his combat exhibition and prowess. And he feels that wild exhilaration of having come so incredibly close to death, and dodged it by a hair’s breadth. He can feel that adrenaline and that victory singing in his blood and in his heart, and he knows he won and the other_ didn’t _, because he was the strongest and they_ weren’t _, they thought they could kill him and he_ survived, _above all else he_ survived, _and it’s like a high that goes straight to his brain and carries him through another day._  
  
 _He starts to live for those fights. For the moment when he sees someone confident and experienced with a deadly weapon in hand that they know how to use, for when the announcer screams out the latest challenge and the history and victories of them both. He still devotes his spare time to searching for an escape, for observing and memorizing and preparing for the day when he’ll be out of here forever. But if he has to fight—and he does—then he can’t deny the frenzied_ thrill _he gets when his opponent is a decent challenge, and he knows his victory will give him that feeling of being alive, for a little while longer. And he can’t deny that he looks forward to those battles with an increasing sense of craving bordering on desperation, the longer he’s trapped in this prison._  
  
 _The guards, the living Galra ones, love it. Shiro often overhears them discussing the battles and placing bets, commenting on how much more interesting Champion has become since the druids’ interference. They love that he dislikes and avoids the fights with ‘fodder.’ “Not interesting enough for him,” they say. “He’s too bloodthirsty to be sated killing weaklings like that. Only the strongest opponents for Champion, to sate that bloodlust. He’ll kill half the lineup eventually.” They spend their time comparing Champion to names like Forok and Sendak and Raxus, and it takes Shiro a very long time to realize these aren’t past gladiators they’re comparing him to—they’re Galra officers of extreme renown for their combat abilities and ruthlessness._  
  
 _When he does realize that, Shiro feels the first alarm bells ringing in his head, and for the first time in a long while he feels uneasy thinking about the more difficult challenges. He remembers once again Haggar’s words._ “The Galra Empire desires you as a weapon. When you kill, it will be your choice. You, not I nor anyone else, will decide when to do so. You will ascend through the arena ranks and beg us to let you fight for the glory of Galra, and when you will kneel before the Emperor it will be your proudest moment.”  
  
 _He wonders if this is what Haggar was driving at. The way he lives for the next dangerous fight, the way the guards are already starting to see him as something embodying the values of the Galra Empire. He wonders if she thinks she’s forcing him into a corner until he finally gives in and buckles and joins them, just for the thrill of another battle._  
  
 _But he’s_ not _one of them, he insists to himself, a little shakily. He’s_ not _. Everything he’s done in the arena has been to spite the Galra, not to embrace their values. They don’t even understand why he does what he does. He’s not a bloodthirsty monster, he’s not hellbent on killing everything and proving he’s the strongest. He doesn’t even kill_ all _of those opponents. (Not unless he knows they deserve it, knows what they’re guilty of). If he was never forced to fight again he would be happy. He doesn’t live for battle, he battles to_ live _. That’s all._  
  
 _But he still can’t deny that desperate little thrill he gets, when he learns he’s slated for a new match, and that craving for his opponent to be a truly deadly challenge. Because he knows that if he lives—_ when _he lives—he’ll feel alive and strong and full and in control again for just a little while longer, and he_ needs _that. He needs that strength and sense of self and sense of fulfillment and sense of_ life _again to bolster him, so he can survive and escape and go back to being a human not living in some godawful nightmare._  
  
 _And he keeps going. He pushes through more matches, searches for more methods of escape, drags through another day, and another, and another. The Galra are starting to grow a little more lax with him; their assumptions that he’s more and more Galra by the day in spirit are to his advantage, at least. They still treat him like something inferior, but in the same way one might treat a particularly well-trained attack dog. Still a dog, still fully capable of savaging a person if they aren’t careful, but it knows the rules and it knows who its masters are and isn’t cause for alarm. But they’ll soon learn he has his teeth bared and it’s only a matter of time before he jerks the leash and bites back. He should have an opportunity to run soon, as long as he’s careful, and watches, and waits._  
  
 _Then he’s dragged to the arena for a new match, and everything changes._  
  
 _The opponent he faces down across the sands is smaller than him, a female gladiator that goes by the title Dagger-in-the-Dark. It’s a ridiculous name and reminds Shiro of the racehorses back on Earth, but this doesn’t really surprise him any. They’re all basically livestock in here for Galra entertainment anyway. There’s no difference and no choice in the matter; it’s just another way any kind of identity is stripped away from them. He never asked to be Champion, either. It’s just unfortunate that his given title has so much weight to it._  
  
 _But Dagger has earned her name in her own way. She doesn’t even come up to his shoulders, but she’s built bulky and all muscle, and sizes him up with experience. She’s vaguely lizard-like, with a long tail and covered in blue scales, wearing the same prison uniform he is, so she’s a combat slave like he is. But she carries the long daggers that clearly grant her name with ease and experience, so they’re familiar to her. She doesn’t charge him down as soon he steps into the arena, which means she has enough sense to be cautious, but she’s also covered in scars and torn scales, which means she’s aggressive enough to have survived in here. And based on the announcer’s screaming, she isn’t here for anything other than the crime of not bowing to Emperor Zarkon when she had the chance._  
  
 _In other words, Shiro is facing someone exactly like himself—someone who clearly never asked for this but was also too stubborn to roll over and die._  
  
 _They circle, watching each other warily as they size each other up. Shiro has the advantage in size and weight, but he can already tell from her movements that Dagger will be both fast and agile, and he knows better than to underestimate that. It’s the exact same skillset that has saved him against much larger, much stronger opponents. He can see intelligence in her eyes and experience in her movements, and he can tell she sees the same in him. They lock eyes, and there’s an understanding between them in that instant, one that crosses any language barrier there might have been between them._ I’m sorry, _they both seem to say._ I respect you and I know you’re a powerful fighter. I know this isn’t your fault. I know you’re just trying to live another day. But it’s down to you and me, and I pick me. Nothing personal. Just survival. You understand. You’re a survivor, too.   
  
_And as if that little moment is enough to set their wariness aside, they both dig in their feet and lunge at the same time._  
  
 _The fight is hard. One of the hardest Shiro has ever taken part of, and one of the longest, too. Dagger-in-the-Dark is quick and skilled and knows exactly how to use her smaller size to her advantage. It’s only Shiro’s experience of using the same tactics that keeps him from being hamstrung, or having his throat slit, or finding a dagger in his heart. Twice she nearly stabs him in the side, through the ribs for a quick score at his heart and lungs, and it’s only his metal arm that saves him, taking the brunt of the damage like a shield. She’s agile and maneuverable, and is able to dart around him so fast he can barely keep an eye on her; she’ll be at his back before he realizes she’s out of his line of sight, already diving in for a kill. He’s covered in gashes everywhere—his arms, his legs, his torso—and he feels increasingly tired and worn out the longer the fight goes on, between the injuries and the blood loss._  
  
 _But he does have to hand it to her—she never does go for anything less than an instantaneous kill. Not only is it efficient and incredibly combat savvy, it’s also likely to be relatively quick and mostly painless for the opponent. She’s forced to survive here, but she’s not a sadistic monster about it like some of the things Shiro has fought._  
  
 _He can respect that. It’s a shame to have to fight her like this. In another circumstance they could have been friends._  
  
 _But he doesn’t hold back, and he gives as good as he gets. For every deep gash she scores in his skin and muscle he returns a solid bruise or a sizzling burn. He’s pretty sure he’s broken some bones in her tail early on, and based on the way she staggers and slows after a while, he’s also fairly certain he’s given her a concussion. There are burn marks across her scales where he’s tried to grapple and pin her down for a victory, or to break a limb as quickly and cleanly as possible to win without a death. He’ll kill if he has to, if he has no other choice and it’s between his survival and her own, but he really doesn’t want to, in this circumstance._  
  
 _By the end of an hour, by the timer hanging above the arena, they’re both still going, but much worse for the wear. They stand apart from each other on either side of the arena, both panting hard, covered in wounds, staring across at the other as they await the next strike. Shiro’s having a harder time maintaining his powered up arm, now—he’s never had to sustain it for so long before, and between that and the blood loss and the injuries he feels dizzy and exhausted. But Dagger-in-the-Dark isn’t doing any better. She’s favoring one leg, now, and only has one dagger left, after Shiro had managed to snap the first with his prosthetic to deflect a strike at his heart._  
  
 _The crowd is screaming; the tension and excitement from the stands is enough to make Shiro feel physically ill. They call him bloodthirsty, but this is their response to such a cutthroat, even fight? He’s disgusted with them._  
  
 _He meets Dagger’s eyes, and she stares back at him. They both know it’s about to be over, one way or another. And once again, as if that’s their cue to finish, Dagger-in-the-Dark lets out a rasping hiss and moves. His challenger lunges towards him, dagger raised to strike. Both of them are wounded, but this is the moment when it ends, the moment victory is assured and one of them truly_ lives—  
  
 _The dagger flashes straight towards his right eye. Shiro jerks his head back and twists, and the blade misses by less than half an inch, scoring a deep, ragged gash across his face instead. He gasps as blood spurts across his vision, and he can taste it in his mouth and chokes on it in his throat as the blade cuts deeply across the bridge of his nose._  
  
 _But she doesn’t make a fatal hit, and they both know it. He can see her eyes go from determined to wide with panic, and he knows she understands the danger. She’s within range now, and her gambit didn’t work._  
  
 _And he doesn’t waste the advantage. His metal arm smashes her dagger-hand out wide to the side, and the blade goes spinning away into the sand. She tries to pull away, but his arm is already sparking to life, and it’s lightning fast in these truly dangerous battles—it’s always fastest when it’s truly life or death. Before she can put more than half a foot of distance between them his metal palm darts out, quicker than even her speed, and fastens around her throat._  
  
 _She hisses and beats at his metal wrist, kicks with her reptilian legs to try and gain traction in the sand to fight back. He lifts her into the air instead over his head, effortlessly with the prosthetic, and she loses any advantage that she had. Without her speed her only chance is to avoid him, and when he’s caught her he outweighs her significantly and has the advantage in strength. She’s lost, and they both know it. She meets his eyes, and Shiro can almost see the grudging acknowledgement, the_ well fought _in them._  
  
 _She still scratches at his metal wrists with her short, stubby claws, and he doesn’t begrudge her that for an instant. Shiro would fight until the end even if it was hopeless, too. He can feel his metal fingers twitching against her throat, through vibration and pressure more than actual touch, and he can almost feel its eagerness to_ crush, _to end the fight and finish the opponent and claim_ victory _. It sparks wildly, and he can smell the awful scent of burning scales._  
  
 _But no._ No. _He doesn’t intend to kill her—he has more respect for her than that. He’s_ not _the Galra. He’s not a monster. He squeezes, but only enough to choke her into unconsciousness, not to crush her throat. It’s so difficult to maintain that level of control over his prosthetic when he’s so tired and so caught up in the effort of_ surviving, _but he manages. After a few moments she goes still, claws sliding off of his metal arm to hang by her sides, and he lowers her to the sand as gently as he can manage._  
  
 _Unfastening the Galra arm from her throat is possibly the most difficult thing he does in the whole match. It’s relentless, refuses to give up its hold, like a starving animal with its jaws around its prey. He forces his fingers to uncurl from burned scales, and after several moments it finally releases. He drops it limply by his side, and stares tiredly up at the crowd._  
  
 _They scream with delight. They love it. The announcer screams Champion’s victory over Dagger-in-the-Dark and the crowd goes wild. Shiro catches sight of himself in one of the video screens filming the whole mess, and for a moment he’s not even sure he’s staring at himself. The blood still running from the slash across his nose has spattered across his whole face, and it looks like he’s wearing some kind of barbaric mask, with only his frenzied, wide eyes still visible. He looks crazy. He looks like a rabid animal. No wonder they think he’s a bloodthirsty, violent lunatic. If he didn’t know better he’d think the same thing._  
  
 _But he knows better. He’s not. That’s not him. He trembles, and tells himself it’s just muscle weakness after the fight._  
  
 _This win shouldn’t feel like a victory. Not like the other dangerous fights do. He feels at least somewhat justified fighting those malicious, sadistic bastards in the ring. He knows what they’ve done, how they’ve hurt others, how they’d delight in hurting him if they get the chance. But this hadn’t been that. Dagger-in-the-Dark is exactly like him, a survivor against all odds just trying to live in one of the worst pits in the universe. He doesn’t feel exhilaration from defeating her; he feels like he’s supposed to be sick. This should be an empty victory. It’s nothing he should be proud of._  
  
 _So why does he feel so_ alive?   
  
_He feels so much stronger inside, so much faster. He’s tired from the fight, he feels the stabbing pains from each of his gashes and cuts, and his stomach rumbles from hunger, but for all that he feels fuller. Fulfilled. He doesn’t feel starved anymore, even though it’s not from the anticipated meals he’ll get from his victory rewards—he certainly doesn’t feel he deserves those. He feels better than he has in days, even despite his injuries. He feels more like himself than he has in a while. He feels real again._  
  
 _What the hell is_ wrong _with him?_  
  
 _This can’t be him. This can’t be the_ real _him, some kind of monster that gets off on winning, that only feels alive after causing pain and murdering others. That’s not_ him _. He knows it’s not him, but he’s survived and he feels more alive than ever at Dagger-in-the-Dark’s expense. But he’d tried to fight her as respectfully as possible considering the circumstances. He doesn’t understand—this isn’t him—this is_ wrong—  
  
 _“—death confirmed with scanners, Champion remains undefeated with another kill added to his count—“_  
  
 _Shiro freezes._  
  
 _No. No, he hadn’t killed her. He definitely hadn’t. He’d made an intense effort to_ preserve _her, to let her live another day. He’s not a goddamn monster. He’s_ not. _He’d respected this opponent too much to just slaughter in the ring like some animal. She has a family she needs to go home to, he’s sure, she’s not dead, she can’t be dead—_  
  
 _But her eyes are still open where she’s sprawled in the sand a few paces from him, and glassy and blank. It’s not unconsciousness—she’s really dead._  
  
But her throat isn’t crushed, _his mind insists stubbornly._ I didn’t want to kill her. I didn’t kill her! I wanted to let her _live!_  
  
 _But she doesn’t move. And as the sentries enter the ring to drag her body away, he realizes something else feels wrong about her. It’s not just that her body isn’t moving anymore; it’s that it feels grayer, almost. Emptier. Soulless._  
  
 _Lifeless._  
  
 _And Shiro feels his heart stop, because in one horrific moment, he knows exactly where that life went._  
  
 _The crowd is still screaming now, but he barely hears them. The announcer is still rambling on, but he doesn’t hear that either. The sentries come and shove him with the butts of their firearms, and when he’s too stunned to move, they grab him by the arms and drag him out, and he barely notices._  
  
 _Alive. He feels alive. He feels more alive than he has in days. And he feels that way because he’d fucking_ stolen _that life from someone else._  
  
 _And this druid-cursed prosthetic is the reason._  
  
 _He wants to be sick. His heart feels like it’s clamped in a vice. He can’t stop shaking, even being dragged by the sentries._  
  
 _It all makes so much twisted sense. All this time, he’s craved the wild battles, and hasn’t wanted anything to do with the fights against the inexperienced slaves. He’s never stopped to question_ why. _He just knows he feels so much more alive, so much more_ fulfilled _, when he fights the bigger battles. When he gives it his all to bring them down, when he gets that_ rush _from victory, when he feels that exhilaration from surviving. He’s always assumed it was just an adrenaline-junkie response, the wild excitement of doing something crazy and_ living _, or from the success of spitting in the Galra’s face and surviving one more day despite all their attempts to kill him._  
  
 _He’s never considered for a second that the reason he might feel so much more_ alive _after those battles is because he_ literally _feels more alive—that he’s somehow stolen away their own life force with this cursed hand to fuel himself instead._  
  
 _It never happened with the slaves, of course. He’s never gone all out against them, never used the prosthetic in full against them. He’s never had the chance to steal their lives away, because he always ends the battles quickly and efficiently before they can be harmed too much. And despite doing good work there, despite resisting the Galra efforts to really turn him into a bloodthirsty slaughtering machine, he always leaves those battles feeling unfulfilled. Empty. Weak._  
  
 _Because he hadn’t consumed their souls. He hadn’t stolen their lives away, by killing or by draining._  
  
 _And that had disappointed him. He’d felt_ frustrated _because he couldn’t use them to make himself feel stronger, more rested, more alive._  
  
 _Shiro feels nothing but horror._  
  
 _When the sentries finally shove him into his cell, the first thing he does is violently throw up in the corner. When they bring him his rations, with extra because of his victory, he can’t bring himself to eat them, for the first time since he’s been captured. His stomach rumbles in protest, but he ignores it, ignores the pain in the gash across his face and the other hastily treated wounds, ignores his exhaustion, ignores everything but the metal palm he holds in front of his face and stares at in horror._  
  
 _He hates this thing. He hates this thing more than he ever has for knowing what it_ does. _It’s a curse and he’ll never be able to get rid of it. He wants to dig his fingers in at the point where metal meets flesh and tear and tear and_ tear _until he pulls it off, pain be damned, but he knows he’ll never be allowed to get away with it. Haggar will just take it as a victory and then punish him worse than before._  
  
 _Haggar._  
  
 _Oh God. She’d_ known _. She’d known from the beginning what she’d done, what she’d attached to him, what it could_ do. _She’d told him from the beginning._ “You may refuse all you like, Champion, but I have found the one thing in the universe that can be absolutely counted on is that everything that exists desires to survive. Even you. Perhaps especially you.”   
  
_And she’d been right. She’d been_ right. _He’s refused from the beginning to die, he’s fought wildly to survive against the worst opponents, no matter what. He’s been craving the deadliest fights and that rush of_ surviving _this whole time because of those hits of energy, whether he realized it or not. He’s been desperate for those little pieces of stolen life, like an addict desperate for his next fix, looking forward to stronger and fiercer opponents because it gave him an excuse to fight. That_ thrill _of living has just been a mask for himself, hiding the fact that he’s a goddamned monster from his own eyes._  
  
 _He’d been so confident in his own humanity, in his own self-control, in his own ability to resist and stay true to his morals, he’d never once seen that she’s had him eating out of the palm of her hand this whole damn time. She’d probably even been controlling the arrangement of the fights, deliberately giving him just enough opponents she knew he wouldn’t strike at to make him feel desperate and empty enough to go all out against the bigger ones. Deliberately choosing the bloodthirstiest opponents with the worst histories, just to let him justify to himself the reasons he could go all-out against them with no regrets. Just to nudge him in the right direction—get him_ just _addicted enough to that little thrill of living that he’s hungry for his next hit, and_ just _starving enough he’s willing to fight for it. Just to get him used to being a bloodthirsty fighter so he never_ really _notices when he crosses the line. When Survival becomes synonymous with Glory and he’s willing to strike at anything put in front of him just to feel alive. When he becomes a weapon without ever realizing it._  
  
“When you kill, it will be your choice. You, not I nor anyone else, will decide when to do so. You will ascend through the arena ranks and beg us to let you fight for the glory of Galra, and when you will kneel before the Emperor it will be your proudest moment. And you will do so because more than anything, you want to live.”  
  
 _Oh God. She’d never for a_ second _meant he’d want to live out of cowardice, that he’d kneel out of fear. Never_ once _had her words been a death threat. She’d_ always _known refusing to back down and never giving up was in his blood, that his primal instinct to survive against all odds was so hardwired into his brain he’d never be able to avoid it. She’d known, and she’d used it completely to her advantage._  
  
 _Oh God, he needs to get_ out _of here._  
  
 _Before he loses himself completely. Before he can’t tell the difference anymore, before he questions why the hell any of this even matters. Before he turns into_ them _. Before he loses his_ soul _to them._  
  
 _But his metal hand clicks as it shakes when he holds in front of him, and his insides feel like ice, and Shiro wonders if it’s too late for even that anymore._  
  
 _And the worst part is, he’s not sure of the answer._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late post is late, but still technically on time! 
> 
> I REALLY wanted to do something for Hunk's birthday today but I just couldn't finish it today. So instead we have this, which is angsty (sorry Hunk), but Hunk is pretty prominent (yay Hunk). Happy Birthday Hunk.

* * *

 

"In the darkest hour the soul is replenished and given strength to continue and endure."  
~Heart Warrior Chosa

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Shiro doesn’t wake gasping this time. This time, he wakes screaming.   
  
There’s a growing feeling of dread and horror and disgust and self-loathing crawling in his stomach and clenching at his heart, and he’s already screaming internally. It’s doesn’t take much for it to rip its way out of his throat, too. His eyes are wide open and staring at the blurred gray ceiling above him and his crawling, disgusting feelings overwhelm even the dullness and the starving void inside himself and _he knows what it is now, he knows what he’s done to fill it,_ and that scream tears out of his ragged, dried-out throat and doesn’t stop.  
  
 _“Shiro!”_  
  
“What, what’s going on, what—“  
  
“Shiro, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s safe—“  
  
It isn’t. It _isn’t_ safe because _he’s here_ , he’s a fucking _monster_ and he’s here and that means nothing is safe around him. He’s like the Galra. He’s _worse_ than them because he has the gall to pretend he’s some noble kind of knight saving the universe when he’s nothing more than a slippery, vile parasite draining the life out of anything around him and calling it a _thrill._   
  
His screams choke to a halt—his throat is too cracked and dry and pained to manage it for long—and he thrashes against the blanket over him instead. Oh god he can’t be here he has to get away before he hurts somebody before he kills somebody before he steals away their souls and lets them keep believing it’s okay because it’s not it’s _not it’s not—_  
  
“Shiro, calm down, you’re gonna hurt yourself!”  
  
“Shiro, please be calm, you’re very ill and can’t afford to endanger yourself like this—“  
  
He can. He _can._ He deserves it, he doesn’t deserve protection after what he _knows_ he’s done now, not when he’s less than human, no, no, _no_. He doesn’t have the strength in his quintessence-starved limbs to push the blanket free or sit up, much less run, but he tries anyway. He can’t be here. He can’t be. He knows he’ll end up hurting someone. He’s so hungry, he’s _starving_ for energy and he _knows_ what he’ll do for it because he’s _done_ it before—  
  
“I never meant to,” he finds himself saying, without even realizing he’s speaking at first. His voice is cracked and broken and he’s disgusted to hear a dry sob in it. What right does he have to feel _sorry_ for himself after what he’s done? He’s just like _them._ Just like the Galra, taking and taking and taking relentlessly and not caring—  
  
—but he can’t stop himself. “I never meant to,” he stammers again, voice cracking and slurred and so tired, “I n-never wanted to, I didn’t mean it…I w-wouldn’t have if I’d…if I’d known…but I _did_ , I took it, I stole it, I _stole_ it—“   
  
“Ssh, Shiro, it’s okay—“   
  
“Easy, Shiro, it was just a bad dream—it’s not real, it’s okay—“  
  
But they’re wrong, they’re _wrong,_ because it’s real, it’s _very real_ and it’s _still real_ , it hasn’t stopped. _“No,”_ he rasps, “ _No, no,_ it’s real, it’s real, I did it, oh god I did it, I stole it, I stole it all, I never meant to—“  
  
He feels a hand on his forehead, and another hand tries to take his own left one, but their touch feels burning and harsh when he feels so ice cold and empty inside, and he jerks away frantically. He feels his heart thud wildly at the touch, and his right arm jerks wildly in response. He can feel the metal arm thrash so hard it pulls at what’s left of his right limb, can feel the fingers twitching frantically at the air as they search desperately for _life,_ but there isn’t any, thank god, they were smart enough to tie it down again when he fell asleep—  
  
“What’s wrong with him? Shiro?”  
  
“His quintessence is dangerously low. I don’t understand how it dropped so quickly, it’s only been six hours—“   
  
“It’s been getting worse. The prosthetic is draining him even faster than before. And we still don’t know why!”  
  
“Shiro, hang on man, we’re gonna help you out, promise—“  
  
No no no, they can’t, he knows what _help_ means and he can’t take any more of their lives, he _can’t_ , it was a mistake to begin with, no no no—  
  
“Shiro, calm down, it’s okay—“  
  
It isn’t. It’s not. And it won’t be. Not until he’s as far away from them as possible and can’t risk hurting them anymore. He tries to get up but he can’t. He tugs frantically at his prosthetic, but it’s still tied down and doesn’t move. He wrenches at it harder, ignores the stabbing pain it sends up his arm and strains with every scrap of energy he has left to get up and get free and get away—  
  
“—down, Shiro, stop, _stop_ —“  
  
“Shiro, _shh_ , please, you’re hurting yourself—“  
  
“Shit—somebody untie his arm before he hurts it more—“  
  
He feels movement, and sees one blurred gray figure bending towards his wrist, still tied down on the new table, and it twitches more frantically as his metal fingers strain without his acknowledgement to reach the new source of quintessence and drink it dry and—  
  
He’s screaming inside again at the thought, can still see Dagger-in-the-Dark’s lifelessness and _emptiness,_ and feels raw _terror_ at the thought of any of the paladins like that. _“NO!”_ he screams, and they jerk to a halt in surprise, staring at him with wide eyes. Lance, he thinks. _“No, NO, DON’T TOUCH IT. DON’T TOUCH IT, IT WILL KILL YOU, IT WILL KILL YOU—“_  
  
He tugs more frantically at the arm, desperate now to fight with every scrap of his being to pull it away from them and keep them distant from it. The sharp pain in his right arm increases, but they’re not _safe_ yet—  
  
“—stop him, hurry—“  
  
“I can’t untie it! He freaks out if I get near and makes himself worse—“  
  
 _“Move.”_  
  
The last is Keith, Shiro thinks dazedly; he sounds angry but determined. He sees another gray shape shove Lance out of the way and make a beeline for his arm, and Shiro frantically tries to pull it away again. But he hears the low rasp of a knife being drawn, and Keith reaches forward to slice the cords binding Shiro’s arm down without getting near it himself.   
  
And the cursed thing is free. His fingers twitch, and moving it is difficult when it seems to have its own interests. But Shiro forcibly curls it tightly against his chest and stomach, as close as he possibly can, as far out of their reach as he can manage. His _real_ arm, what’s left of it, throbs painfully where it meets metal, but he feels like he deserves it somehow. He feels the metal fingers dig into the blanket and his shirt against his ribs, but he has nothing to take from _himself_ and he’d deserve it anyway even if he did. Maybe they’ll be safe from him. _Maybe_. If he can control it. Control himself.   
  
God, he’s so _empty._ So withered inside. So _dead._  
  
He’s distantly aware that they’re all around him now, that they’re all talking to him with gentle voices and soothing words, but he can barely hear them and can’t take comfort in the tone. He doesn’t deserve it. Not any of it. Not his title, not his right as leader, not their respect, not their protection, _none_ of it.   
  
“—not responding—“  
  
“—ink he hears us?”  
  
“—do a quintessence transfer _now_. Hunk, are you ready?”  
  
“Yeah, let’s do it. I’m really worried about him—“  
  
Shiro feels a light, delicate hand on his forehead, and puts enough words and memories together to know what that means. _“No,”_ he snarls, wild-eyed and desperate, and with _everything_ he has left he pulls his head away.   
  
“Shiro!” And that’s _definitely_ Keith, and he sounds frustrated and a little scared. “Remember, we talked about this before—you promised you’d let us help—“  
  
“No,” Shiro gasps. It doesn’t matter what he’d promised. It was a promise he made before he’d known he was a goddamn _parasite_ and would drain the life out of them all without question if given the chance. He won’t put them in danger. He won’t. He can’t. He’d rather die. (He’d like to think he’d rather die, but Haggar knows him better—Haggar knows he’ll do anything to survive, anything at all, and he can’t give himself the opportunity, he can’t, he can’t—)  
  
“Shiro, _please_ —“   
  
“No. No more. No more. I can’t, not again. Not again. Not them.”  
  
“Shiro—“  
  
“Okay, everyone back off for a minute. This is clearly freaking him out pressuring him like this isn’t helping. Shiro?”  
  
He blinks blearily as he’s addressed by one of the gray shapes. The shape leans closer, and he vaguely registers Hunk. “No more,” he says again, barely a whisper. “Not again.”  
  
“Okay. That’s okay, we’ll take a break for a few minutes. Can I sit down next to you? Is that okay?”  
  
Shiro tries to consider the question. It’s too hard to do until Hunk leans a little closer, and his metal fingers drum against his ribs, and he trembles at the feeling of ice and emptiness and nothing else in him. “Don’t touch,” he says thickly. “It’ll kill you…”  
  
“Okay. Okay, that’s good to know. I’ll be really careful, I promise. Can I help you sit up for a minute? Your throat sounds bad. Maybe a little water would help…”  
  
That’s too much to think about. But they don’t try to feed him more quintessence and Hunk doesn’t try to touch his arm, so he doesn’t fight it when Hunk slides his own arm carefully beneath Shiro’s shoulders and helps him sit up. He _does_ feel a spike of fear when Hunk leans Shiro against his shoulder and chest to keep him steady, because his prosthetic is _too close_ to Hunk then and it’s not _safe._ But someone, he’s not sure who, wraps him in a couple extra blankets, and his arm is wrapped away in them and pinned against his chest. He can still feel it twitching against his ribs, incessant and hungry, but it’s better. At least he can’t hurt them now. Not right away, at least.  
  
He leans bonelessly against Hunk where he’s placed, head slumped against Hunk’s shoulder and the rest propped against Hunk’s chest, with one of the paladin’s arms around his own shoulders to keep him steady. He feels completely spent. Exhausted inside and out, drained of life and dead inside, ice cold and dull and colorless. But he can feel Hunk’s heartbeat and he’s _warm_ and he knows that Hunk is _alive_ , Shiro hasn’t stolen anything away from him, and that’s…that’s comforting, at least.   
  
He shudders, and hears himself muttering softly, “I didn’t mean to…but I did it…I stole it, I stole it all…”  
  
“Ssh,” Hunk soothes. “It’s okay. Whatever happened we’ll figure it out, Shiro, promise. Just try to calm down and take it easy, okay?”  
  
“I did it. She was right about me. She was _right._ I’m…”  
  
“Sssh. Here, Keith brought some more water. Can you try and drink it? I can help you. It’ll make your throat feel better.”   
  
He doesn’t feel like drinking anything, but Hunk seems to think it’s important. Shiro doesn’t really feel he deserves the kindness and gentleness that’s in that voice right now, but Hunk’s warm and alive and just about the only thing holding him together at the moment. He can try.   
  
And he does. He can’t manage very many sips; even with Hunk’s help he’s too weak, too empty to manage much. But it does feel at least a little better on his throat, which doesn’t feel so hoarse and rough after the water. Hunk tries to coax him into a little more, but when Shiro can’t manage even when he tries, Hunk finally sighs and hands the glass off to someone standing to the side—Allura, maybe, Shiro thinks distantly. He doesn’t know.   
  
“Okay,” Hunk says, once the glass is handed off. “That was good, Shiro. Can we try taking a look at your arm next?”  
  
Alarm courses through him, a bright shock in the dullness of his mind, and Shiro tries to pull away in a panic. “No! No, don’t touch it, don’t touch it it will kill you—“  
  
“Easy! Ssh, easy,” Hunk says, somehow managing to sound both apologetic and soothing all in one. He murmurs gently and places a reassuring hand on Shiro’s back, and the touch is calming and the noises are kind, and after a moment Shiro settles uneasily. “Sorry, Shiro, I didn’t mean the prosthetic, it’s okay, ssh, easy. We promised. I mean _your_ arm. Just the part where it connects. It’s gotta hurt, right?”  
  
It does. It does _often_ , but now it’s an insistent throbbing interspersed with sharp spikes of pain that cause his metal fingers to dig more painfully into his side every time he feels them.   
  
“We just want to make sure we get that taken care of,” Hunk says. “That’s all. I promise we’ll just look at the grafting point. That’s it. And if you need a break just let us know. Okay?”  
  
Hunk’s voice is calm, but Shiro thinks he can hear a faint underlying tremor in it. Worry, maybe. They shouldn’t be worried about _him._ He doesn’t deserve it. But Hunk seems anxious for him to say yes. And…and as long as they don’t get near his forearm, as long as he can’t drain the life out of them…and he’s so tired and _god_ he just wants at least a little to stop hurting.   
  
“Kay,” he says after a moment. His voice is barely a whisper.   
  
They’re true to their word, at least. Hunk supports him, and he’s not sure who else is there, but they help to peel back the binding blankets just enough to free his upper arm. The prosthetic stays wrapped against his chest, and taps against his ribs impatiently, but it doesn’t have the freedom to move. Shiro stays flopped against Hunk and only vaguely registers the words around him. He flinches slightly at the touches, but they’re patient and careful.  
  
“Shit, his skin’s really torn up here—“  
  
“He was pulling pretty hard, and it’s obviously not removable. Looks like it won’t need stitches or anything, though. What do you think, Coran?”  
  
“A cryo-pod would fix this in a tick or two, but under the circumstances that’s inadvisable. We’ll bind the cuts and leave it for now. There’s nothing life threatening here, fortunately, although it’s probably painful. I’ve got some salve for that, if he can take it. He wasn’t responsive to the sedative, after all…”   
  
There’s more careful movement all around him, and Shiro feels a gentle press of cloth against his arm, warm and light against his skin. The painful bolts shooting through his arm seem to diminish slightly at the touch, and the throbbing gets a little less strong. He feels a soothing pat on his shoulder, and then the gray shapes around him seem to move away.  
  
Hunk doesn’t move Shiro, though, and lets him settle back against his shoulder. Shiro finds himself trembling, feels his own metal prosthetic digging harder into his shirt and pressing almost painfully against his ribs, and he feels so ice cold and empty inside, and the void threatens to consume him. But Hunk is warm and reminds him that he’s still the tiniest bit alive, and the way Hunk rubs his back in slow circles is comforting. He doesn’t sleep—he _can’t_ sleep—but he calms a little at least, his soft muttering quieting into shuddering breaths and his eyes drifting half-closed. Hunk continues to murmur to him softly, assuring him that things will be just fine and they’ll figure everything out, and he lets himself drift on the words.  
  
Distantly, he can hear other voices, less soothing than Hunk’s quiet murmurs but no less concerned. “Tell me you guys found some kind of solution. He can’t take much more of this. He’s getting _worse._ ”  
  
 “Hunk and I are confident we can replace the energy source with a decent crystal, but it’s going to be difficult.”  
  
“Did you find something you can work with? Last I saw we decided it was wired too closely into vital nervous system components and set up to draw directly from his quintessence.”  
  
“It will be doable, we think, but we’ll need to be very careful and go slowly. If we aren’t careful there is still a very high possibility we could cause permanent damage. And most importantly, we need the right kind of crystal, something compatible with Galra tech.”  
  
“Didn’t we capture a Galra crystal? Is that compatible?”  
  
“Are you _insane?_ You saw what that did to the Castle—do you honestly think we’d risk putting that thing in _Shiro?_ No way, not until I get a better chance to investigate it further.”   
  
“Shit, good point, I didn’t think of that…but do we have anything else that could work?”  
  
 “Unfortunately we don’t have any stored in the castle. I’ve been going through our own crystals, but we have nothing that could be safely used to power the technology.”  
  
 “So we go back to the Balmera. Shay and the others would definitely give us a crystal. They can help us find the right one, even.”  
  
 “The Balmera? It’s too far! Hunk is the only one left that can donate any quintessence, and it’s lasting less and less time each time we give any. He’s not gonna make it that long, especially if it’s going to take as long as it sounds to fix!”   
  
Shiro stirs uneasily at the angry, frustrated tone, trying to lift his head. That sounds like Keith. He sounds angry. He knows it’s because of him, somehow—all of this is his fault—  
  
“Shh,” Hunk soothes. “It’s fine, you’re fine. They’re not angry at you or anything, they’re just worried. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”   
  
Shiro’s not entirely sure he believes it. Their tones are all so frustrated and angry and scared and they’re talking about him, he thinks. He’s not a good person. They have to be furious at him. But Hunk keeps talking, slow and calm, and carefully pushes Shiro’s head back down against his shoulder. After a moment Shiro settles again, too worn out to move for long.  
  
“—a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”   
  
“I do.” Keith’s voice is hard, and he sounds determined. “I say we hit the Galra first and steal some of their big containers of quintessence.”   
  
There’s a stunned silence as everyone clearly tries to process this, and Shiro feels a spike of alarm stab through the empty void in him at the words. Even Hunk’s soothing murmurs falter for a moment, and his hand stops rubbing circles in Shiro’s back.   
  
“That is foolhardy,” Allura says finally. “There are a dozen reasons that is an unacceptable solution, starting with the way the Galra obtain it.”  
  
“Look, I agree, it’s _wrong_ how the Galra steal it from people and planets—”  
  
Shiro flinches at that, feels Keith’s sharp, angry words like a knife right to his heart, accusing and disappointed. “‘m sorry,” he rasps thickly, stirring again, trying to push away from that warmth and comfort he doesn’t deserve. “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have…didn’t want to…but I _did,_ I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—“  
  
“Ssssh. Shiro, it’s okay.” Hunk puts both arms around him in a loose hug, just enough to keep him from pushing away, and then goes back to the soothing little circles. “He’s not talking about you. No one’s angry at you. No one blames you. It’ll be okay.”  
  
Shiro doesn’t believe it. He deserves those accusations, that anger, not this warmth and kindness. You don’t treat parasites with _kindness_. But he’s so frozen inside and those words are so warm and he’s so tired, and he doesn’t fight it.  
  
Keith continues, voice full of conviction. “It’s wrong, but _we can’t give it back._ If we could, we would, but we _can’t._ We don’t know where it came from or who it belonged to. It’s done. We may as well steal it from the Galra and make sure it gets used for the _right reasons_. Like _saving Shiro_ so we can _all_ fight to make sure the Galra stop stealing quintessence from others.”  
  
“Even if we _could_ , how would we get it? That quintessence production plant at the universal station was full of the stuff but it was heavily guarded. Keith almost died in there. And we’re gonna be down two fighters.”  
  
“Two? Shiro and…?”  
  
“Hunk. He _has_ to donate to Shiro soon, and if we do this we have to do it like _now_ so we have enough time to get the stuff before Shiro needs another dose.”  
  
“Shit. You’re right. And Pidge has only had a couple hours to rest, so…”   
  
“Don’t worry about me. I’m used to pulling all nighters. For Shiro’s sake I can handle it. But that still raises the question—how do we _get_ their quintessence?”  
  
“The ships!” Lance’s voice sounds excited, and there’s a snapping noise. “We saw them delivering some of the raw stuff off one of the warships. If we can find one and intercept it before it gets to one of these bases we might have a better shot.”   
  
“We still have some of that stolen data from our last mission with Shiro before…yeah. Pidge, can you hack it? I bet there’s shipping manifests—“  
  
“Already on it.” The sound of rapid typing fills the silence, and after several moments Pidge hisses, “Bingo. We’ve got something we can use, but we’ll need to leave for it _now_. Allura, I can give you the coordinates.”   
  
Allura sighs tiredly. “I’m still not entirely certain about this…but I suppose we’ve already bent a fair number of other parts of the paladin code for the sake of success. But we must ensure it’s the unrefined quintessence, at least. I’ve seen the video footage Keith transmitted back via his helm last time—once refined into Galra fuel it has the potential to be just as unstable as the crystal that damaged the Castle.”   
  
“And we what—use this stuff to tide Shiro over until we can get to the Balmera, find the crystal, and do whatever needs to be done to fix his arm?”  
  
“That’s the idea. Like giving someone blood transfusions until you find the source of a bleed and fix it.”   
  
“It won’t even take any of Allura’s abilities to give it to him. When some of it got spilled on me it healed all the burns I got from the druid’s attacks just through touch. I figure it’ll just be absorbed as long as we can get some for him.”  
  
“Alright. Then everybody get ready for a fight, because we’re not leaving until we get some of this stuff for Shiro.”  
  
No. _No._ They can’t. He’s only processing a tiny fraction of their words, but it’s enough to know they’re about to do something truly dangerous for _his_ sake. He can’t let them. They shouldn’t. He’s a parasite, feeding off their kindness and their loyalty and their lives and giving nothing back and he doesn’t _deserve_ this kind of devotion.   
  
“Stop,” he says softly. “Don’t. Too dangerous.”  
  
“We can’t let you die, Shiro,” Hunk says. His tone is gentle but firm. “Or stay sick like this. It’s okay, we’ll be careful.”  
  
“Dangerous. Wrong. Don’t,” Shiro insists. “Not for me…not after…what I…”  
  
“You’d fly in solo for any of us in a heartbeat,” Lance says, and it takes Shiro a depressingly long time to realize the others have gathered around him again. “You’ve got to let us do the same for you.”  
  
“No….no….” He doesn’t really have a better argument, but they can’t. They can’t risk themselves like that for him. Not for him.   
  
“Relax, Shiro. We’ll be careful. We’ll plan it out just like you would and everything. It’ll be okay.” Pidge sounds tired still, drained still, but firm.   
  
Keith’s hand rests on Shiro’s shoulder over the blankets, and he adds, “Remember what I said before, Shiro. About the promise. I’m not watching you disappear again. None of us are.”   
  
“It would be remiss of us to allow one of our own to fall,” Allura agrees. “I will not permit it to happen. Alteans look after their own, no matter the illness or injury.”   
  
“The Princess is right,” Coran adds. “That’s how it’s always been done. Perhaps you’re not an actual Altean, but you certainly are an honorary one by now. Sit tight, Number One, we’ll take care of everything.”  
  
And he doesn’t deserve this, _any_ of this really, but the words are all so _warm_ on his ice-cold soul and that empty void inside him feels just a little less heavy. He can feel their fierce determination and loyalty and protection, and he has faint memories of feeling it in their quintessence as well, and he almost, _almost_ believes that maybe he deserves it.   
  
They want so badly for him to make it through this, and he probably doesn’t deserve their help, but god he so badly doesn’t want to die like this, either. And that’s really the crux of the problem. Haggar knows him too well, but…  
  
But who does he want to trust? Haggar, or his _team?_   
  
And decisions are still difficult as hell, and he can’t really wrap his mind around the concept of how to make a choice, but that one still feels too obvious even to him. And very slowly, he nods once into Hunk’s shoulder, too tired to agree any other way.   
  
He can feel Hunk’s shoulder sag slightly in relief, and hear faint sighs from a few of the others. Pidge nods and says, “Okay, I’ve got the coordinates for Allura, and we’ll need to get moving right away.”   
  
“But Shiro needs more quintessence first,” Lance adds. “We’ll need to do that before anything else.”  
  
“I’m ready whenever,” Hunk says. “Shiro—I’m gonna help you lay back down for this, okay? You’ll probably be more comfortable that way.”  
  
Shiro couldn’t protest that even if he tried; he doesn’t have the strength to resist being maneuvered so easily. Hunk is careful though, and Shiro is soon settled back fully onto the cot once again, with the pair of blankets from earlier still wrapped safely around him to keep his traitorous arm pinned against his torso.   
  
Shiro is a little reassured by that, distantly, but less okay with the thought of receiving more quintessence. He knows how badly he needs it, but he also knows what he’s done to _get_ it. To fill that empty void inside himself, eradicate that ravening hunger, soothe that exhaustion. He’d been hungry for Keith’s and Lance’s quintessences, and fought to consume Pidge’s quintessence before, all of it, and that would have _killed_ her. He’s not sure he could stop himself if it comes to it again, not when he’s so desperate for more.   
  
He doesn’t want to do what Haggar wants him to do. And he’s _terrified_ of the thought of killing Hunk with his own hunger.   
  
He finds himself trembling when Allura places her hand on his forehead for the transfer, and he flinches faintly at the touch. She frowns and leans forward more into his line of view, saying, “Shiro? There is nothing to fear. I promise.”   
  
There’s plenty to fear, but it’s hard to really articulate. So he slurs as best he can, “Too empty…will kill you…” and hopes it’s enough.  
  
It seems to be, because she brushes his fringe back from his face and says confidently, “I assure you, I am fully prepared this time for this transfer and I know what to expect. _Everyone_ will remain safe. I will guarantee it as the Princess of Altea.”  
  
And…and she does sound confident…and something _had_ blocked him from really consuming all of Pidge’s quintessence. It had to have been her, right? And she’s prepared this time. It has to be safe. Right?  
  
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Hunk adds, patting Shiro on the shoulder. “I trust you both.”   
  
Trusting Shiro is a terrible thing to do right now. He can’t control himself. But Allura…Allura is strong enough for both of them right now. Shiro hopes it’s enough, and nods slowly, sliding his eyes closed.  
  
The transfer begins a few moments later. As always, it begins with a soft trickle of energy, as Allura transfers the first tentative little wisps of quintessence. They’re just tiny little drops of energy, but the moment Shiro has access to them he finds it difficult to focus on anything else. He’s _ravenous_ for it, and feels like screaming internally when those little pieces of much-needed life are swallowed by the void in him.   
  
But Allura does _something_ different this time. As the flow of energy increases, a rush of gold smoke that empties into Shiro’s core, he finds it flows towards him more, giving him the opportunity to obtain some of it before it all flows away into the dark.  
  
And recognizes that, but he….hesitates. He needs it so _bad,_ he’s desperate for it, but if he gets his first taste of energy he knows he won’t be able to hold himself back again, and Hunk—he can’t—  
  
He doesn’t have much willpower left, but he digs in his mental heels and refuses to touch it, no matter how thirsty he is for that energy, no matter how withered and empty he feels without it. He can’t hurt them, he can’t—but it hurts so bad to watch it all flow into the void—  
  
He doesn’t realize he’s shaking again until he hears someone cursing distantly, and a hand is placed on his right shoulder. “You’ve got to accept their help, Shiro,” someone insists. “Please. They’ve got it. You don’t have to hold back. Just let go.”  
  
That’s the last piece holding back his shaky, fragile resistance, and his resolve finally cracks. He reaches for that golden quintessence in his head, taking it greedily, more and more, letting it strengthen him again. Those first wisps of quintessence are like a breath of life, and he gasps at the almost overwhelming sensation of the icy feeling in his core melting, of strength returning to his limbs, feeling returning to his heart, color bleeding back into his vision. He doesn’t truly realize how barren he’s felt until everything comes back to him at once and it’s so strong it _hurts_ , and still he’s starving and desperate for more.  
  
He accepts the quintessence greedily and claws for more, but eventually the flow of energy begins to slow to a trickle again—and once again Shiro feels that edge of panic when it starts to disappear. It’s not _enough._ He’s still so _empty_. He’s a little stronger but it’s not enough to live, he needs _more_ , he’s starving for it, he will _take it_ if he has to—  
  
And he tries, clawing at the trickles of energy to drag it down with him, reach the source of it all, drain everything, take everything, _live._ He has a goal and he knows he can survive if he just fights _hard_ enough for it.   
  
But something blocks him, firm and unrelenting, refusing to let him take more. And he panics. Throws himself mentally at the barrier and smashes against it and tries to claw it down, wild and primal and violent and struggling for the quintessence on the other side because _there’s so much of it_ and he’s desperate he needs it _he needs it he needs it to live_ —  
  
It’s the pain in his side that makes him realize what he’s doing. It takes him a second to understand it’s not that agonized feeling in his mind from being so starved of quintessence; this is _real,_ physical pain. It takes him even longer to identify the reason, because he doesn’t have any sense of touch in his prosthetic, and the feeling of metal fingers digging through his shirt into his own flesh is almost foreign. His prosthetic’s digits are twitching in response to his wild, panicked attempts to take more quintessence and are struggling to assist, digging so deeply into his own side he may actually be bruising his own ribs.  
  
But it’s real enough and horrifying enough to make him realize what he’s doing. _Hunk. Oh god, he’s trying to kill Hunk._ And he backpedals wildly from the barrier in his mind. Something inside him keeps screaming to attack, to fight, to _live_ , survive at all costs, no matter what, and he fights against that primal piece of him with every scrap of humanity he has.   
  
It’s so hard. That piece of him is so _strong_ when it comes down to life or death, and in a way that makes sense; it’s the same piece, he’s sure, that’s gotten him through his year as a prisoner, the piece that Haggar bet on, and its only goal is to _preserve itself_. Shiro’s too weak to fight it by himself, especially now, and it forces its way forward, piece by piece, struggling for that barrier and the desired energy beyond—  
  
But then Shiro feels it. A presence that’s so solid and strong, one that bolsters his own flagging strength and supports him in his own efforts to fight back. He feels reliability—a force so firm and unmoving it can always be counted on for support, will never back away when needed. He feels a strong moral drive, a desire to do the right thing by those cared for and by those who deserve it. He feels kindness, a great heart and empathetic soul able to reach out to others and understand and offer sympathy and kind, friendly words. But he also feels a quiet fierceness beneath the surface, and a powerful desire to protect. This gold quintessence isn’t nearly so aggressive as the red and green had been, but threaten the things closest to its core and it will truly be an unstoppable and powerful force to behold.   
  
This is Hunk, the very definition of him, at his deepest core. It’s so easy sometimes to forget how _strong_ Hunk is below the surface, below the nervousness and the lack of adventurousness, but Hunk is a force in his own right, and Shiro can feel it all too well now. That quintessence doesn’t for a second berate him for his weakness—instead it loans Shiro its strength, pushing him forward and supporting him fully without question or hesitation.   
  
And with that strength Shiro finds it in him push back that starving, wild part of himself, and finally _let go_ of those last trails of energy drifting away from him again. Letting them go almost physically hurts, and the survivor part of him that desperately does _not_ want to die panics, suffering and terrified. But Hunk’s quintessence is there too, indiscriminate and calming and patient, and offers soothing feelings and a steady presence. And slowly, that piece stops fighting.  
  
And gradually, unbelievably, Shiro finds his mind calming. He’s still so _hungry_ , so desperate for even the tiniest wisps of energy, feels like he’s cracking apart under the pressure of his own weakness and desperation, too fragile to handle it anymore. But Hunk’s presence in his head is solid as a rock and utterly untouched by the turbulence and muddled chaos that is his mind, and it’s like it holds him together at his core, gentle but unrelentingly firm.   
  
Allura’s hand pulls away from his forehead, and Shiro slowly cracks his eyes open. He still feels awful—tired, empty, physically and mentally weak, with a dull mind, dull heart, and dull colors. But he’s better than before, able to at least make out the others around him and comprehend where he is. And Hunk’s quintessence grounds him here. Shiro can still feel those terrible memories and still knows the awful things he’s done, and what’s left of his soul still feels rattled and broken from knowing what he _is_. But Hunk’s quintessence takes a great deal of that weight on itself and supports Shiro though what’s left. It doesn’t just distract Shiro away from the terrible thoughts and agonizing fears—it helps him bear them, quiet but firm. And Shiro finds himself able to settle back, just a little, and allow himself to be supported.   
  
He doesn’t realize, until that moment, just how badly his rattled mind, body and soul need that stability.   
  
And that realization grows even stronger when he feels his prosthetic fingers oh so slowly unfolding from his side, releasing bruised flesh from where they’d dug in hard. He can feel one finger tapping quietly against his ribs, an anxious little tempo, but it’s otherwise quiet and still. And considering how badly he’d wrecked the surrounding area last time and how ravenous he’s been for energy, he’s genuinely shocked it’s behaving. It’s trapped against his chest with the blankets wrapped around him, but he knows that won’t stop it if he’s that hellbent on obtaining energy with it—stealing the life out of his friends and draining them dry to survive himself and—  
  
The tapping grows a little more insistent, a little more painful against his bruised side, but Hunk’s quintessence intercedes almost immediately, drawing in his fragmenting thoughts before he can shatter and holding him together again. _Enough,_ it almost seems to say. _Let me help you_. And it does, and Shiro settles again.  
  
“How’re you feeling?” Lance asks, as Allura steps back and accepts Coran’s arm gratefully for support.  
  
Terrible, really, but that’s not an acceptable answer even if it’s the truth. “Better,” he offers after a moment, which is also the truth, at least in part.  
  
“But not great,” Lance deduces, giving him a flat look, before shaking his head. “Right.”  
  
In retrospect, Shiro realizes belatedly, he should probably know better than to try and pull that on Lance now that he’s actually seen the blue paladin’s quintessence in action. No, definitely still not at full capacity when it comes to his thoughts.   
  
“How about you, Hunk?”   
  
“This feels _weird,_ ” Hunk says, after a moment. He looks worn down and exhausted already, and his whole body sags. There are dark lines under his eyes, and he looks as though he could lay his head down on the edge of the cot and pass out then and there. “I don’t know how you’ve all been managing. It feels so…”  
  
“Empty?” Pidge supplies.   
  
“Colder,” Keith offers.   
  
“Like you’re not all there,” Lance finishes.   
  
Shiro can’t disagree with any of those assessments. They’re all right, and just a fraction of the many things he’s been feeling for days now. “Sorry,” he whispers after a moment. “I didn’t mean to…”  
  
“We’re not blaming you,” Pidge says immediately, almost scowling. “We’re mad that you have to _deal_ with it at all.” And Hunk’s quintessence agrees, easing the weight of his guilt and his apologies before they can grow too heavy.   
  
Keith nods in grim agreement. “Can’t wait to bust in a few sentries,” he growls. “I am looking forward to wrecking that warship once we get what we need off it.”   
  
Lance nods as well, expression unusually icy. “Least they deserve,” he agrees, and Shiro is stunned at the fierce loyalty that comes from each of them. Or maybe he shouldn’t be. He’s still not quite sure how he earned it from all of them, but he’s _felt_ it in each of their quintessences now, always in a different way but ultimately always the same kind of devotion. They really mean it, and they’re _furious_ on his behalf, when he doesn’t have the strength to be.  
  
After a moment Lance’s expression calms, though, and he adds in a more friendly tone, “It feels a little better after you sleep a while though, Hunk. Kick back on the couch and get your chill on, after half a day it’s not quite as rough—“  
  
“Uh-uh. No way. I’m going with you guys for this fight,” Hunk says.   
  
“I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” Coran cuts in, frowning, as he guides Allura to one of the stools to sit on. “Based on the reactions of everyone else, and what we know of quintessence deficiency, you won’t be able to focus well.”  
  
“I’ll have Yellow help me focus,” Hunk says. “And I’ll take a nap until right when we’re about to fight. But I can’t let you guys go in alone like this. We’re down Voltron already—this has to be a team effort, right?”   
  
“You can’t connect to your Lion as well,” Keith warns. “I had trouble reaching Red right after I gave my quintessence.”  
  
“Same here with Blue,” Lance agrees, scowling a little.   
  
“Probably the reason Shiro was having a hard time flying too before all this,” Pidge adds. And Shiro nods after a very long moment because…well, they’re right. He hasn’t really…really felt Black in his head for a while now. She’s gone into the void with everything else important to him and he can’t reach her. How has he not noticed? It seems like such an important thing to know, seems so _obvious_ , he’s supposed to be the black paladin, how can he have not noticed his own Lion has gone missing, it’s just another reason he’s a failure in all of this—  
  
His breath grows a little harsher, but Hunk’s quintessence cuts off his increasingly out of control thoughts before they get too far away from himself, and carefully pulls them back in place and strips the weight from them. He calms again, slowly, the unease still there but easier to bear.   
  
Black will…Black will come back to him. Once he’s better. Once they help him. She’s probably just waiting for the moment he can hear her again. That’s….that’s all.  
  
Hunk’s quintessence approves of the last thoughts, and strengthens them, putting its full weight behind them. Shiro clings to the thoughts with everything he has. It’s like clinging to a rock in a stormy sea, and it’s exhausting, but still preferable to drowning.  
  
“—makes sense,” Coran is saying. “The Lions rely heavily on the pilot’s quintessence, first to choose a proper match and then to continue communicating with them. Without enough quintessence, or the correct matching quintessence, that connection would grow weaker.”   
  
“Then I’ll be careful,” Hunk assures. He sounds so tired, but so determined at the same time. It reminds Shiro of when they attacked Zarkon’s ship—when he’d been so uneasy but so willing to join the fight anyway. “I’ll stay on the outskirts. Only cover you if it gets bad. I’ll play backup and outside support, I won’t go in for the heavy defense and close combat like I usually do. But I can’t stay behind with something so important on the line. If Shiro could manage it, I can too.”  
  
There doesn’t seem to be any question of it after that. “We need to get moving then,” Pidge says. “Allura, I’ve got the coordinates—if you can get the Castle of Lions to that point, we can intercept the ship and strike hard and fast before they know we’re here.”  
  
“Very well,” Allura agrees. She stands, a little shaky, but refuses Coran’s assistance with a wave of her hand. “Paladins, prepare for battle.”  
  
They nod, and most of them stand to get their armor and weapons and prep their lions. Before they can get to far, Shiro says weakly, “Wait.” He’s so tired now, fighting his exhaustion and what little chance at rest Hunk’s quintessence gives him, and speaking is a struggle, but he forces the word out.  
  
They freeze, and almost as one turn to face him, waiting.   
  
And he knows they expect a protest. He knows because it’s _what_ he wants to do, himself. Scream for them to _stop_ and _don’t do this_ and _it’s too dangerous, not worth it._ But he knows they won’t listen to those words. He knows it because he's felt that loyalty and that protection from all of them, seen all of their souls. And he forces himself to remember what he decided on: who will he choose to trust? Haggar, or his friends?   
  
They’re so determined. So loyal, so devoted. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it but it’s something each of them feels so strongly, and he needs to trust them. He has to, now, when he can’t even trust himself.   
  
So he wants to scream _don’t go_ , but what he whispers instead is, “Be careful. Please.”   
  
Lance is the one to break the silence after that, and smirks. “Please. We’ve got this in the bag. We won’t even _need_ Voltron for this. Just sit tight and we’ll have you better before you know it.”   
  
“I…” Shiro’s not sure it will be that easy. They’re putting on brave faces, and it’s so hard to _tell_ like this with his mind so muddled, even with the help of Hunk’s quintessence, but he can tell they’re worried.   
  
“Just rest, Shiro,” Keith says. “We’ll take care of it.”   
  
“And we’ll be careful,” Hunk adds, actually acknowledging Shiro’s request with a glance around at the others.  
  
It’s the best he can hope for, and Shiro’s struggling to stay awake now. “Careful,” he slurs, one last time, as his eyes begin to slide shut. “Don’t….risk…”   
  
But sleep drags him under fully before he can finish his warning, and he doesn’t hear their answers as he slides once again into the dark.


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

 

“It isn't enough to stand up and fight darkness. You've got to stand apart from it, too. You've got to be different from it.”  
~Fool Moon, Jim Butcher

* * *

  
_The blackness is back._  
  
_It’s thick and cloying as always, so dark and strong Shiro can’t see more than a foot in front of his face. It’s unnatural and stifling, pressing in on him from all sides, and it feels so_ cold. _And Shiro is familiar enough with this place to notice the new change, as well, as he scuffs his feet on the not-quite-ground, because the soles of his boots catch on tiny little imperfections in the shadow-made surface. There’s a little spider’s web of cracks spiraling outward from where he stands into the dark, intricate and detailed._  
  
_Shiro knows this place enough to know that while he doesn’t like the things that hide here, this still isn’t a good sign. It’s frightening, actually. He feels like he’s standing on too-thin ice and watching the little fractures crawl out from beneath him, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before it can’t take his weight any more and he plunges into the cold, dark depths._  
  
_He’s not sure what could be darker than where is now. He is sure he doesn’t want to find out._  
  
_He should move, he knows. He needs to get away from this place, before he falls, before Haggar finds him. He needs to move, but he’s so tired. The strength he’s had in this place is always minuscule compared to what he knows he’s truly capable of, but now he has nothing at all, and he just….he can’t keep it up. Not like this._  
  
_That’s how Haggar finds him—standing, body bowed and shoulders slumped, staring at the spiderweb of cracks growing ever larger beneath him._  
  
_She doesn’t smile at the sight, which Shiro finds surprising. She bares her teeth at the shadow fragmentations and seems to be considering them carefully, pacing around him as she does. Her clawed hands flex, slow and sure, like she aches to put them around his throat, or wrench them around his heart._  
  
_It occurs to Shiro she’s not as happy by his inevitable fall as he’d expect. It occurs even later to him that perhaps she’s not happy with it because it means she loses a plaything. He’s honestly not sure which end would be worse._  
  
_Shiro’s not sure what kind of sign Haggar is waiting for, but she must eventually get it. Her angry snarl curls upward into a smile, and she glides towards him effortlessly, stepping easily over the cracks and crevices in the ground. It seems to take her weight just fine, or maybe she’s hovering, with the way she moves so smoothly. She raises one clawed hand for him, and something in him screams to fight, run, anything, but he’s just so tired. He tries, he raises an arm weakly to shield himself, takes a wobbling step back, feels the ground shift alarmingly under his feet. It’s not enough—Haggar doesn’t even have to counter his movements. She just reaches out and calmly snatches at his left wrist._  
  
_Only, her hands never actually touch his sleeve. She tries to wrap her fingers around his arm, but they wrap around the gold crystal mounted against his wrist, not unlike the guards of his paladin armor._  
  
_Wait…crystal?_  
  
_Shiro stares at it in confusion. He doesn’t remember this crystal from his armor or around the castle or even the Balmera, and he’s sure he would have remembered one as unique as this. It’s a soft gold color and seems to have its own inner glow. It looks like condensed mist, constantly swirling and shifting gently, but when Shiro flexes his wrist slowly to test it, it feels perfectly solid._  
  
_And as he watches it seems to grow up his arm, shifting to conform to the shape as needed. He’s reminded of the second Robeast they fought on the Balmera, when the living planet had finally joined the fight, with one key difference: these crystals aren’t trying to kill him. They’re trying to_ protect _him. Before long Shiro finds himself outfitted armor similar to his own paladin uniform, with crystalline vambraces, greaves, cuirass and pauldrons. Each piece looks transparent and fragile, but is more solid than steel when put to the test. And each piece seems to encase him in strength, as well. The pieces are already lighter than the armor he’s used to, but he finds his weariness diminishes and he’s able to stand tall with his shoulders straight once again._  
  
_And Shiro feels more than a physical sort of strength, too. There’s an unwavering, reliable stability with him, and he knows it will hold him up through this entire battle if it has to, loan him the strength and the willpower and carry him if need be. It’s powerful kindness and fierce loyalty and courage in the darkest moments and it surges through his mind in a rush, solid and supportive and protective._ Hands off, _it seems to rumble, low and warning, as Haggar tightens her grip._ You’ll free him. Now.  
  
_Haggar looks furious, and tries to dig her fingers in savagely, but her claws—while incredibly sharp, as Shiro knows from first hand experience—don’t even leave the tiniest of scratches or swirls in the smokey crystal. She slashes at his whole arm instead, and her sharp nails shatter on impact, and the cracks and splinters grow up her hand and arm, fragmenting it into shards that dissolve into ash._  
  
_She screams in anger, and steps back into the dark, vanishing._  
  
_But Shiro knows she won’t be gone for long. He turns to look for her, the glow of quintessence-made armor illuminating his vision. And as he does he shifts, feet catching on the cracks in the ground again. He freezes, eyes wide, as he stares at the ground and remembers how close he was to breaking through—_  
  
_But the ground holds, and doesn’t shift unnaturally beneath his feet. To his surprise, the spider-web of cracks are still there, but seem to be filled with gold instead, holding the unsteady landscape beneath him together. It reinforces, creates stability, a foundation for Shiro to stand on, and he feels…he feels_ safe _here, for the first time since he arrived._  
  
_This quintessence—_ Hunk’s _quintessence—won’t let him fall._  
  
_A feeling of_ warning _is the only sense Shiro gets before the air is filled with a furious screech and a crackle of energy. Shiro turns in time to see an arc of purple lightning blasting towards him, and he throws his left hand up to shield his face, closing his eyes against the brightness and bracing for the blast._  
  
_It never comes. Shiro cracks his eyes in confusion, and finds a crystalline shield has grown off of his wrist-armor, not unlike the collapsible shields the paladin armor uses. It crackles and sparks with purple energy around the edges, and the gold mist the shield is made of whirls and twists quickly in agitation, but the druidic magic never touches Shiro._  
  
_He looks out into the blackness and sees Haggar, her only hand raised, fingertips still sparking with magic. She looks livid, and paces restlessly. But she doesn’t try it again, and she doesn’t come closer. She seems to know the attempt is useless, as long as Shiro isn’t alone._  
  
_And he knows he isn’t alone. His quintessence armor proves it. But even if the energy never adjusts its shape beyond the form it’s already taken, he can all but feel Hunk standing next to him, wearing that same determined look he had on the day he declared his understanding for what being a paladin really_ meant. _He can all but see Hunk alongside him, hefting his massive bayard easily as he keeps it trained in Haggar’s direction, loyal and determined to do the right thing, no matter how frightening it might be to try. And the quintessence seems to hum around him, and it waits, strong and stable._  
  
Rest easy, _it seems to say._ It’s safe for now. I’ll shield you.  
  
_And it does, but it does far more than that. Haggar can’t bypass that armor to strike at his soul, but it holds him together, too. He’s been so tired, so close to fracturing; there’s not enough left of him to last, not in all the chaos in his head and with the upsets in his mind. But Hunk’s quintessence finds all the pieces and holds them together and shelters them, and Shiro can feel himself regrouping. He_ holds. _Just a little while longer, but he manages._  
  
_It’s stunning, really. How loyal and protective each of these quintessences have been, yet how vastly diverse they are in showing it. Hunk’s quintessence is by no means aggressive like Keith’s or even Pidge’s had been. Of them all it’s most similar to Lance’s, and maybe that makes sense. Hunk is also a leg of Voltron, and like Lance, his first priority is supporting the team. But where Lance’s quintessence had still favored an aggressive defense, Hunk’s remains unshakable and unbreakable—pure, unrelenting defense. It doesn’t actively strike against Haggar, but it absolutely will not be broken, either, and Haggar can beat against it until she withers to dust—her attempts will always be meaningless. And that’s a different kind of strength entirely, but one that Shiro knows shouldn’t be underestimated._  
  
_Haggar can’t take him. Not while he’s protected. Not while Hunk’s quintessence guards him._  
  
_For a time, it feels safe again. Shiro doesn’t really rest, not now; he’s too drained of his own quintessence to be able to manage it, and even with Hunk’s quintessence giving him strength he can’t quite manage to get below the surface into true sleep. But he’s calm, at least, and he feels safe, for a time. For a while, Haggar can’t hurt him. For a while, he’s safe from whatever vile memories she wants to relieve, from whatever awful things she wants to reveal about him to himself._  
  
_But it won’t last. He knows it, because it never has, and there’s only so much any of them can give. Shiro doesn’t know how much time passes, but he can feel when his shoulders start to sag again, when the strength Hunk’s quintessence gives him starts to waver. When minuscule cracks start to craw their way up the surface of the crystalline armor._  
  
_He knows it’s the end when Haggar’s eyes fixate on him, and she flexes her only hand, dragging her sharp claws through the shadows. Waiting. Knowing. Ready._  
  
Leave, _Hunk’s quintessence warns him suddenly. It feels more tired now. Weaker. More anxious now, but still giving Shiro the strength he needs._ Hurry.  
  
_And it isn’t really surprising to Shiro that Hunk’s quintessence gives nearly the same advice that Lance’s had towards the end. Support the internal team first, preserve, protect those close to you before extending. If you can’t, and you aren’t backed into a corner and forced to fight for everything you have, then_ run. _Live to fight another day, and come back stronger._  
  
_Shiro takes the advice, and he runs._  
  
_He doesn’t get very far._  
  
_This time, Haggar doesn’t simply appear in front of him and block his path. This time, Shiro feels something hit him hard from behind, a crackling burst of power that sends him overbalancing. He hits the ground and cries out in pain as he rolls; he feels the not-quite-solid surface beneath him shift as cracks begin to sprout in its surface anew, wherever he touches. He tries to push himself away from it, roll to his feet to run, but before he can something digs hard into his collar and drags him up to his knees._  
  
_Hunk’s quintessence tries to flood him with strength, give him the power to run, fight back, anything. But there’s no more strength left to give, and Shiro struggles, even as Haggar glides into his view again and stares down at him coldly._  
  
_Then she slams the fingers of her only remaining hand into his crystalline cuirass, and presses down hard._  
  
_For a moment, Shiro can feel Hunk’s quintessence scramble to resist. It’s weak, and he can feel edges of Hunk’s nervousness and anxiety, rolled over by his courage. But there’s not enough anymore. For one eternal second the armor seems to harden and_ resist _with everything the quintessence has left, and Shiro is almost sure Hagger will shatter again._  
  
_But then her claws sink deeply into the smokey crystal, and the cracks in it grow wider. Her hand_ twists _, and the solidity of it is lost suddenly as the gold drains to gray. It wavers for a moment, and then crumbles into dust and disappears into the dark. The rest of the armor turns ashen and slides off of his shoulders and arms and legs as well, scattering into nothing, and Shiro is alone again._  
  
_Alone and so, so tired._  
  
_He struggles to hold himself together, but it’s so_ difficult _without Hunk’s strength. He barely understands where he is anymore. What’s happening. He hurts everywhere—in body, in mind, in soul. The cracks beneath him grow wider, more gaping, and there’s nothing left to stabilize it. There’s nothing left of himself to hold anything together. He’s frozen inside and empty and weak._  
  
_The hand that fastens around his throat manages to startle him, and he finds himself being lifted as easily as if he were a toy. Haggar holds him above her head with a strength that doesn’t seem to fit into her thin body, and smiles. He manages to raise his left hand to her wrist to hold on, but it’s a weak action at best. He doesn’t have an ounce of strength to try and fight back._  
  
_He can barely see her in the darkness as it is, and his grayed vision blurs further as she digs in with her fingers and steals his breath away. He can feel blood dribbling down the sides of his neck, and scratches weakly at her wrist. It does nothing._  
  
_He watches in muddled confusion as she seems to_ sigh _, and the shattered stump of her right hand seems to bubble. He watches as it regrows itself, boiling and twisting until a wrist and palm and fingers rip their way free from her skin, as her long claws grow back into place. He can’t bring himself to feel surprise. He hurts to much to bother._  
  
_She breathes deep again, flexes her newly re-grown hand experimentally, and nods. Then she takes that new hand, and plunges it straight into his heart again._  
  
_Like before, he screams. He can’t not. But this is a tired, strangled noise, choked and weak from his stolen breath, and it cuts into a pained whimper. He scratches weakly at her wrist again, but it’s all he can manage. He can feel her ice-cold fingers on his ice-cold heart and he can’t seem to fathom a world where he isn’t frozen at the core and mindlessly suffering anymore, he just hurts hurts hurts everything hurts everything is broken and collapsing and shattering inside he can’t hold together anymore there’s nothing left in him to give—_  
  
I’m doing this to save you, you know, _Shiro hears._  
  
_He tries to gasp. It comes out as more of a choked whine. That’s Haggar’s voice, but it isn’t until she speaks that he realizes he’s never, ever heard her here. She’s laughed but never spoken. Attacks but never taunts. Glares but never challenges. But she speaks now, and…and he doesn’t know what that means, but it sends a spark of fear through the emptiness inside him. He claws at her wrist a little more insistently, tries to force back the pain and the cold long enough to…to what, he’s not sure. To do_ something. _Anything._  
  
It makes you stronger, _Haggar says, as her fingers tighten around his heart._ If you would do your part, anyway. If you would let me help.  
  
_Shiro doesn’t believe her. Not for a second. Her promises are poison and cleverly woven lies. Trust the paladins, he reminds himself._  
  
I could make you better, _Haggar insists. Her claws dig deeper._ I could make you feel whole again. Full. Human. Alive. If you _let_ me.  
  
_Don’t trust her. Don’t believe her. She_ lies.  
  
You are dying, _she says._ You do understand that, don’t you? You are dying. You have been for days.  
  
_Because of you, Shiro wants to scream. I’m dying because of_ you, _because you turned me into a parasite and made a weapon out of me. This is your fault. This is_ all _your fault. But he doesn’t have the breath to whimper much less scream in outrage. He chokes, claws at her hand. Thinks his vision may be blacking out. Not sure. It’s so black already._  
  
Your accomplices have been trying to help, _Haggar says. She sounds…serious. Not laughing. Not taunting. Cold, but not out of malice, just matter-of-fact._ But they can’t help you the way you _need._ But I can. And I want you to survive, Champion. More than anything I will see you survive. And that is what you want, too, or I wouldn’t be here, would I?  
  
_No, no, no. He wants to live but not like this. Not paying whatever price Haggar would have him give. It can’t be worth it. She lies._  
  
There’s only so long I can hold you out of the dark, _Haggar says. Her teeth flash in the gloom, bared but not in a grin. Her bright yellow eyes_ flick _for just a moment down to the ground beneath Shiro, and he realizes, through hazy senses and agonizing pain, that the cracks have grown wider, that the ground has started to shatter. She’s killing him, and at the same time she’s keeping him from falling deeper still._  
  
_Shiro doesn’t know what that means. It hurts too much to think about._  
  
I only have so much strength left, _Haggar continues._ Give me yours. Just enough. Just enough to make me stronger, just enough to leave your heart still beating, Champion, and we shall invest that energy into an even greater spell. I will help you harvest all the energy you need. Everything to survive and then some.  
  
_But at what cost? That energy has to come from somewhere. It’s not his to take. He won’t. He digs his fingers weakly into her wrist, and they twitch madly when another spasm of pain wrenches through his whole body. Oh, god, he really is dying._  
  
It’s not like it’s new to you, _Haggar says, more insistent now. If Shiro wasn’t going mad with agony he’d have almost said she sounded urgent. But Haggar never sounds urgent. She demands, she orders, she slyly manipulates strings to get what she wants, but time is never against her._  
  
This isn’t the first time you’ve harvested energy. There have been others. Dozens of others. Harronox. Korrixan. Medgar the Scythe. Barrok. Killi’iesh the Serpent. Ripper. Malosek. Goretusk. Zerik the Savage.  
  
_Shiro doesn’t recognize all the names, but he does feel a far-off sense of memory with each one as she lists them off, intermingled with stabs of pain and twisted thoughts. Opponents, in the ring. The deadly fighters. The ones he’d nearly craved a match against, desperate for that primal high that came with victory. Starving for energy without realizing it. Stealing lives without knowing._  
  
_He wants to be sick. He’s not even strong enough to be._  
  
_And still her list keeps going._  
  
_There’s so many names. He can’t remember any of the battles, but he knows each name has a story, and none of them left that ring with their life force intact…if they left at all. And it’s always because of_ him. _Always. Before the way the name_ Champion _was uttered made him uneasy. Now, as her list goes on, it terrifies him._  
  
Kosul. Moonbreaker. Natesh the Bloodthirsty. Dagger-in-the-Dark.  
  
_Shiro freezes. Another spasm of pain wracks him as Haggar draws one of her claws almost gently around his still, frozen heart, dripping a little more of his lifeblood down her wrist and into the dark. She pauses, for one very long moment, and then continues._  
  
Marrowstorm. Haltiesh Stonerender.  
  
_No._  
  
Alleris the Blade. Mogonosh. Phenris the Devourer.  
  
_No, he wouldn’t have. Not knowing. He would never have. No, no, no._  
  
_But he did. He_ had. _He can’t remember but he knows without a shadow of a doubt it’s true. He’s a parasite by her design but by his own choice. No, no, no—_  
  
Sendak. Haggar.  
  
_And then Haggar stares him in the eye, and when she speaks next, her teeth are bared in a savage smile, and she looks hungry._  
  
The life of the Castle of Lions, courtesy of Princess Allura of Altea.  
  
_No._  
  
Red Paladin Keith.  
  
_No._  
  
Blue Paladin Lance.  
  
_No._  
  
Green Paladin Pidge.  
  
_No._  
  
Yellow Paladin Hunk.  
  
_No!_  
  
Shall we strike at the adviser next? Altean energy is vibrant, but dense. Difficult to harvest but I shall put it to good use. You will survive, Champion, I will see to it.  
  
_No! Not like this! Never like this! He can’t make a noise, but his mind is screaming now, not from his agony but from his wild terror at the thought of Haggar striking at any of his friends. Using him to do so. No, no, no, he can’t, he can’t, he won’t—_  
  
_He struggles against her, digging fingers deeply into her wrist, trying to tear at the tendons. He’s ice cold inside and her claws are so deep in his heart but his terror warms him anew. He can’t. He won’t. No, no, no—_  
  
Or perhaps the paladins, _Haggar says, seemingly unconcerned with his struggle. She still looks hungry. Wild. Dangerous._ Less quintessence, yes, but not yet drained. There’s still some yet to take. Paladin quintessence is always strong, the Lions choose for that strength. Drain them dry and I will make you stronger for it, Champion, I will make you survive—  
  
_NO!_  
  
_No, he doesn’t_ want _this. He doesn’t want to just_ survive, _standing over the bodies of his friends, his_ family, _living at any cost like a rabid animal. He wants to_ live. _To form memories that don’t make him cringe or shake in fear. To fight for a purpose besides staying alive just one more day. To earn the respect and love of his family, help them, fight for them, protect them. To go home to Earth one day without any regrets._  
  
_And if Haggar promises only survival at the expense of anything and everything important to him, then it’s too much of a cost to bear. No matter what._  
  
_Shiro doesn’t know where he finds the strength in himself. He doesn’t know if it’s some tiny minuscule holdover from the quintessences freely given to him, if some small part of the strength of the other paladins is left hidden for just the right moment. He doesn’t know if it’s what’s left of his own black paladin’s quintessence, drawing together the last of its strength and ideals to fight one last time. He doesn’t know if it’s just pure, raw, undiluted terror at the thought of Haggar hurting his friends._  
  
_He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t care. He finds it, and he uses the last of it in one last attack. He digs his fingers so deeply into Haggar’s wrist he hears the bones_ crunch _suddenly, and her eyes widen in surprise. Her hand spasms around his heart and her other around his throat and he lets out a choked_ scream, _because it’s pure, absolute agony and torment and he can’t_ not, _but he doesn’t stop. He kicks with one of his dangling legs, and it’s enough to make her arm snap, and her fingers twitch. He slides free of her grip, and collapses._  
  
You idiot, _she snarls in his head._ You’ll die! Give me the last of your energy and I can preserve you! Let me take it! You’ll die without me!  
  
_I don’t care, Shiro thinks, and he doesn’t care if she can hear him, either. I don’t care. I won’t pay my soul just to survive. No longer. That isn’t me. I’m done._  
  
_And he crashes through the fractured shadowed ground into the blackness beyond._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that can't be good.
> 
> No update tomorrow, ‘cause I need to get some stuff done!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a day off today, so let's get this one out a little early.

* * *

 

“If you can't run, you crawl. And if you can't crawl, you find someone to carry you.”  
~Firefly

* * *

  
“Hush, Shiro, lad. It’s alright. It’s safe.”  
  
He feels iced over inside. Heavy. Weighted down internally. Something heavy laying over him. Empty. Ravenous. The void is all consuming and it’s all there is.   
  
He knows he should be terrified. He can’t move. Feels sick. Weak. Drained. He can’t feel anything. Can’t care. Too tired. Hurts too much.  
  
There’s a low keening sound he can hear. He’s not sure what it is. It sounds primal. Animal. Agonized. It stops when Shiro feels something warm on his arm. It rubs gently, feels soothing. Something else soft and fuzzy nuzzles his face, his neck, nestles just under his jawline, tickles against his ear. It’s nice. Not cold. Not pain. Not hunger. Soothing. Better.   
  
“That’s it. It’s alright. Nothing will hurt you here.”  
  
It takes him far too long to realize the animal noise was coming from himself.   
  
It’s such a struggle, and he almost gives up, but he manages to crack his eyes open after a moment. His vision is all shades of gray, blurred and indistinct, dark. He’s not sure where he is. If the lights are on. But he thinks this place is empty.   
  
Empty except for the one person sitting next to him. He can barely make out Coran’s features. It all blurs together, even this close. But he thinks Coran smiles at him. Feels his left arm being patted gently again.   
  
“There you are. Back with us? Very good. Looks like you got a little rest, but I’ll wager you could use a little more, hm, Number One?”  
  
He stares blankly. Is…is that a question? For him? He’s not sure. He’s not…he doesn’t…what was asked?  
  
He thinks Coran’s smile turns a little sad. It’s…difficult to understand. So far away. “That’s alright, Shiro. You don’t need to answer. Just take it easy. The mice and I can keep an eye on things for you, don’t you worry.”  
  
There’s a responding nudge somewhere near his jawline. Soft, warm, gentle. Mouse. Right. Allura’s friends.   
  
Friends.  
  
This room is empty.  
  
He tries to ask where they are. Paladins. Allura. He’s not sure if the words make it past his thoughts to his tongue. If they’re the right ones. He’s so distracted. Everything hurts. Everything’s so heavy, so tiring. He’s so hungry.   
  
He’s not sure if he asks. But Coran seems to know anyway. “Don’t you worry about the others,” he says. His voice is almost painfully cheerful. It hurts. Doesn’t feel right, somehow. “They just stepped out for a bit to run an errand and pick up a few things, that’s all. They’ll be right back.”   
  
Something about that doesn’t seem right. Shiro remembers _danger._ He remembers _worry._ He remembers _fear._ But he remembers it the same way one remembers a dream slipping through the crevices of their mind after freshly waking. The feelings are too far away for him to really grasp.  
  
Maybe it’s better they’re away, though. Haggar can’t find them then. He can’t steal their life away. Safer.   
  
His eyes slide closed again. Slow. Heavy. Coran pats his arm again, and says soothingly, “That’s it, Shiro. Just rest a little while. They’ll be back soon and you can see them again. And you’ll feel better then, too.”  
  
He doesn’t think he’ll ever feel better again. This void inside him is too deep and expansive to ever fill. It’s only a matter of time until he falls into it forever.  
  
He drifts.   
  
Sometimes he feels nothing at all. Those moments are the kindest.   
  
Sometimes he feels nothing, because he doesn’t exist anymore. There’s just that ravenous endless nightmare inside him. Starving. Desperate. Consuming everything and consuming itself when there’s nothing else left. He is ice, then. He is pain. He is the void. He is endless. He is never the black paladin. He is never Shiro. Those things can’t exist here.   
  
Sometimes he feels _pain,_ but not because of the void. Because Haggar is there. Because she hovers at his bedside and glares down at him hatefully and hisses to give her his energy. To feed already. Let her help him take the energy so readily there. Let her help him survive. His metal fingers twitch against his chest then, but he refuses. Fights her with everything he has left when he can think, just like he resolved. Keeps his hand pinned against himself, fights to keep it still. And she hates him for it. She digs her nails into his arm where metal meets flesh and twists, and he cries out. She presses her hands down on his chest and it’s so heavy he can’t breathe, and he feels his heart erratic and wild beneath her palms, and knows her claws ache for it. She fastens her hands around his throat and he chokes for breath. She waits in the blurry gray surroundings to his right and hovers in the shadows and stares at him, and he trembles, and pleads with the universe not to let his friends come back to this. She’ll consume them. She’ll make him hurt them. He’ll fight her, he’ll refuse just like before, but he doesn’t have the strength to last forever. That pain goes straight past his body and into his soul.   
  
But Haggar never touches Coran, never hurts the mice. So sometimes, very rarely, he feels relief. Because at least they’re safe. Because when Haggar hurts him it means it’s not them she digs her claws into. Because when she attacks the mice nuzzle against his skin, soft and gentle, and Coran rubs his arm or holds his hand until the worst of her torments are finished. Because Coran’s calm voice and the tiny, innocent squeaks of the mice are kind and soothing and drown out Haggar’s poisonous whispers and savage orders, makes it just the tiniest bit easier to resist. Because for a while he hurts a little less that way.   
  
And sometimes he feels other things. Sometimes he can’t remember why he’s here, where he is, who is with him. Sometimes he does and that’s worse because he can’t remember why the others left him here alone. What he did to deserve it. Sometimes he gets confused, and Coran is so patient with him but he doesn’t understand why. Sometimes he can’t understand what’s going on around him. The way everything seems to shake and the world rumbles, or the way there are voices but he can’t quite make out the words or where they come from.   
  
“—foreseen complication. More fighters than expected.”  
  
“Do you need me—“  
  
“—ecessary. Stay with Shiro. Monitor—“   
  
The world rumbles again. He feels the shaking down into his bones. Haggar glares coldly at him, and wrenches her claws further into his right arm, where metal meets flesh, through the blanket. Shiro cries out. The noise dies in his throat and comes out as a strangled whimper.   
  
He feels his left arm being squeezed gently again. Such a contrast to his right. “—rry, Princess. He’s not…not well. He needs quintessence badly, or…”   
  
Haggar glares at him, as if to say, _pay attention, and let me assist._ But the mice squeak and chitter in his ears and nuzzle at his face and he can’t hear her words. She wrenches her claws free from his arm and vanishes.   
  
She will be back. He shudders at the thought.  
  
The void becomes more common. He has a harder time existing outside of pure suffering; it’s all he has left now. Everything in him hurts. He feels so much heavier. Breathing becomes a struggle. He doesn’t have the strength left to pull air into his own lungs. The void has consumed all that strength. It’s eating itself alive. It’s taking him with it.   
  
Very far away, he thinks he feels someone take his hand in their own. And very distant, he hears a voice. Coran’s, maybe, but it sounds so…different. Old. Tired. Tired as he feels. “Hold on, Shiro,” it says, and he has to strain to hear it through the maddening hunger that’s overtaken everything about him. “Hold on just a little longer. There’s just a little more fighting left for you to do. I know you can do it. I know you must be so tired, I know it must be hard. But you’re the black paladin. That’s a part of you. Your quintessence just makes it stronger. But it’s still _you_ , Shiro. So just be strong a little longer.”   
  
Scared, Shiro realizes. That’s the difference. Coran sounds _scared_. Shiro only vaguely remembers the same voice once, when Allura had been taken. When he’d almost lost family. He’s scared to lose family now.   
  
_Just be strong a little longer…_  
  
Shiro doesn’t know if he can. But he’ll try. And although it’s a struggle, he continues to fight for every breath he takes. Like a black paladin is supposed to.  
  
Just a little longer.  
  
He’s not sure how many breaths pass before there’s a heavy thudding noise. Suddenly he hears gasping, and so far away, a new voice. “Coran—hurry—need you at the cryo-pods—Keith’s hurt bad, Hunk’s getting him to the room but we need you now—“  
  
Shiro feels Coran shift, and the warm touch on his arm vanishes. “I’m on my way. Stay with Shiro.” And then, less firm, more desperate sounding, “ _Please_ tell me you were successful.”  
  
“We got it.” There’s exhaustion in the words as they’re breathed out, but there’s also relief and exhilaration. “Lance has them in his Lion, he’s getting them out and bringing one down now. We managed to get three containers, I hope it’s enough.”  
  
“Treat Shiro with some as soon as you get it here,” Coran says. His voice is urgent. “He needs it immediately.”  
  
“Will do. Hurry. Keith—“  
  
“I’ll take care of him. Don’t you worry.”  
  
There’s a lot of noise. Shiro hears someone else approach. He’s not strong enough to open his eyes and see who. All the strength he has left is going to each individual breath, one at a time. He struggles to keep those last drops of strength away from the void. Struggles to keep them away from _her._ That’s all that matters. Just a little longer.  
  
“Hang on, Shiro,” the new voice says. He feels a gloved hand wrap around his fingers and squeeze. “We’ve almost got it. Just a few more minutes, Lance is coming with the quintessence.”  
  
Just a little longer. He clings to the mantra Coran gave him.   
  
There’s more noise, and another new voice speaks. “Ugh, these things are heavy, even with hover tech built into it for transport. It’s energy, why is it this heavy? Here, help me move this thing…”  
  
The hand vanishes, and he hears a thudding noise farther away in the distance. Footsteps, growing closer. A ringing metal sound. And then something new, a smell that’s sickly sweet and cloying in his nose. It’s sharp. Sticky. Familiar. The scent fills his nostrils on the cold metal table as the masked faces bend over him and dig into his arm, strip it away, use their magics when that sickly sweet smell gains a stench of death and he hurts everywhere hurts everywhere hurts everywhere—  
  
“Shiro! Shiro, it’s okay, it’s me and Pidge, we’re in the Castle, it’s okay, easy—“  
  
“Here,” he chokes. His throat is so dry. His lungs struggle to give him enough breath to speak. But they have to understand. “They’re…here…can’t…”  
  
“Easy. Ssh. It’s okay. It’s safe here. We wouldn’t let anything bad in. It’s just Lance and Pidge. And we brought you some stuff to make you feel better. Yeah, it totally stinks, but it’ll be okay.”  
  
But Haggar is _there._ He can feel her hovering over him, pointed teeth bared in a fierce grimace. She drags one of her long nails up his metal arm and digs into the socket. He jerks. That pain and that smell go together and she’s _here_ and he can’t he can’t he can’t—  
  
“—okay, it’s okay, relax, Shiro. It’s totally safe here. I promise, it’s safe, you’re safe, there’s no one here. Lance and I would kick their asses even if there were. It’s okay, just _please_ let us help you—“  
  
“Yeah, we fought really hard to get this stuff for you, Shiro. Keith threw a whole bunch of guys out an airlock for it. Pretty cool, right? You can’t refuse after Keith does the airlock thing, right? And Allura says it’s safe. C’mon, let us help you, please?”  
  
Haggar leers at him. But he can feel someone’s hand on his shoulder. Another on his arm. Feel the warmth and softness of the mice around his head. He doesn’t like the smell of it but their touch is _real_ and it’s _warm_ and it’s _safe_ , not like that place.   
  
_Who does he trust? Haggar, or the paladins?_   
  
He settles. Breathes. Waits.  
  
“That’s it, Shiro. Just chill and let us handle everything. Now…uh, how do we…?”  
  
“It’s kind of liquid. Keith said it’d just absorb. What if we try…”  
  
Shiro hears movement, and then something presses against his forehead. It’s warm and wet, and feels like a soaked cloth, as if he were feverish. But it’s not water—the scent is stronger, too close, on him. But he hears someone talking as the cloth dabs at his skin, and the words don’t really make sense but they’re calm and friendly. He feels safe.   
  
The chattering continues, and as it does the cloth seems to dry out. It’s taken away and comes back dripping wet again. The droplets never seem to roll down his temples completely before it feels like they disappear. And it feels…good. Better. Comforting. The warmth is nice on his ice cold body and soul. He feels little trickles of energy, this more liquid-like than smokey, drift through him. He takes it greedily. It’s not enough to sate his ravening hunger, but it’s steady, and he feels ever so slightly better for it. Enough to find the strength to breathe again, if nothing else. Weakly, with difficulty, but his chest doesn’t feel so heavy, and his sides don’t heave with the effort of taking in even a little air.   
  
“—and so that leaves Pidge and Keith against like fifty sentries in this hangar with the containers they were trying to smuggle out and Keith is kind of out of it—don’t worry Shiro, he’ll be fine, you know how he is—and he’s all ‘hey Lance, we need your devilishly amazing piloting skills as soon as possible—‘ “   
  
“Funny, that’s not what I remember, and I was standing right next to him. _I_ distinctly recall hearing ‘Lance, change of plans, get your ass over here now.’ “ The cloth is dry again—it dries out so quickly—and it’s taken away and replaced on Shiro’s forehead again smoothly.  
  
“Look, who’s telling this story? So anyway, I’m in the middle of an amazing battle against, oh, a couple hundred fighters—“  
  
“A couple dozen, Lance. A couple dozen.”  
  
“—couple _hundred_ fighters, and I still manage to find time to zip around to the other side of the warship just in time to hear Keith talking about playing fetch. Which is a total insult, of course. Blue’s a Lion, not a dog. You’d think he’d know better.” Lance sounds affronted on the part of his Lion. But Shiro thinks that maybe there’s a tiny quaver to his voice as he speaks. Lance is…scared. Of the fight? The story? Shiro’s not sure. He’s not strong enough to understand.   
  
“—get there just in time to see the hangar doors just go flying open, and all the sentries get whipped out. And Pidge and Keith and the containers, too. I snatched up all the containers in Blue without breaking them. That’s some mad piloting skills, there. And that’s how we got this quintessence for you.”  
  
“The Green Lion caught me and Keith. We had to leave Red behind in the Castle; Keith and I were supposed to stealth in, but, well, that didn’t work so well. I guess it’s a good thing, since Keith couldn’t really…”  
  
Pidge slows. Sounds hesitant. Tired. And also scared.   
  
“He’ll be fine,” Lance says. His voice is insistent. The cloth on Shiro’s forehead is replaced again almost aggressively in tune with the words. “Everyone’s gonna be fine. Keith. Shiro. Everyone. Everyone’s okay. Allura’s already heading for the Balmera and we’ll get a crystal and you guys’ll fix Shiro right up and _everything’s_ going to be _okay._ ”  
  
He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. That should scare Shiro, should drive him to act somehow, but he just…he can’t. He’s just so tired. Even with these tiny little steady scraps of energy there’s just not enough left of him for that.   
  
Lance starts chattering again, and Shiro lets the words wash over him once more, meaningless, reassuring noise. And he drifts.   
  
He doesn’t rest. He can’t. The void inside him won’t let him find solace in sleep. It’s hard to imagine there was a time when he _didn’t_ yearn for rest, when he avoided it constantly. Now he’d do almost anything for just an hour.   
  
But he drifts in and out of focus between the void and exhaustion and starvation in his head. Sometimes he feels strange little sensations, like the tiniest breaths of life, the tiniest hints of personality. Creativity-passion-independence-bitterness-cheerfulness-love-hate-strength-morality-envy-will-cleverness-friendliness-despair-leadership-optimism-kindness-pride-more-more-more go _flick flick flick_ through his head too fast and too many to count, endless pieces of people too weak to last and too long gone to be known anymore, remembered only one last fleeting time in Shiro’s soul before disappearing into oblivion. He’s sorry he can’t save those pieces. Thanks them for their sacrifice, when he’s coherent enough to do so. Whimpers under the onslaught of _too much too many too late_ when he’s not.   
  
Haggar is still there too, still appears to dig in her claws and cause him pain and rail at him about how he _needs her_ to survive. Give _her_ the energy. Let her _help him_. But she’s quieter now. Harder to hear. Strikes less often. He’s still so afraid she’ll attack one of the paladins, but she never does. She only ever attacks _him_. Better that way. They don’t deserve the torments she has for them.  
  
And sometimes he drifts closer to the surface, and he sometimes struggles to open his eyes for a time, to see the gray shapes around him and feel their warmth and take comfort in their presence. He can sometimes feel them pressing the warm, wet cloths to his forehead, and it feels so good and he hurts just a tiny bit less when they do. Sometimes when Haggar hurts him he can feel them there, and they carry him through the worst of the pains with gentle words and gentle touches. Sometimes he’s pulled more insistently out of the void and his own churning mind when arms slide beneath him and lift, and he’s propped against something warm, and something is pressed to his lips. They coax and soothe and he drinks obediently, because he trusts them and they’re safe. They settle him down again and tuck heaviness and warmth around him. It’s not enough by itself to fight the iciness inside him, but they try and it helps. Just a little.  
  
And then he drifts again.

* * *

 

“How’s he doing?”  
  
“Same, mostly. In and out. Not really all there, has trouble understanding where he is.”   
  
“Damn it. I was hoping this stuff would, I don’t know, make him _better._ ”  
  
“It’s letting him hold steady. That’s better than before, at least.”  
  
“I guess. The arm’s acting up more, though. Whenever he’s unresponsive to us. Keeps trying to break the bonds. It gets twitchy every time I walk past or sit with him…it’s really creepy. Like it has a mind of its own.”  
  
 “It kind of…does, I guess. In a way. Coran and I looked a little deeper after he panicked that last time. It’s designed to drain quintessence through extended contact to obtain fuel for itself and strengthen its host. And probably weaken opponents, too, if it doesn’t kill them outright. You’re a viable source of quintessence close by, so…”  
  
 “Ugh. Gross. Is it mind control or something?”  
  
 “No, but that’s not really a relief, either…Hunk and Coran and I went back in to try and figure out how it hooked into his own life source and we found…other things it’s hooked into. We almost missed it—it’s really well hidden in with the rest of the nerve connections, but Coran did some deeper brain scans after Shiro freaked out.”  
  
“Yeah? And?”  
  
“And it’s not mind control, it’s…it’s _survival._ It’s instinct. It’s hooked into a completely different part of the brain, the animal part that’s all about keeping you alive at any cost. Fight or flight response, adrenaline rush, that instinctual need to keep on living that lets people get through all _kinds_ of awful things. It has no concept of moral choices or sentient will because it’s just pure animal instinct. And it’ll overpower even Shiro’s conscious barriers to meet that goal, because _everything_ alive is wired to try to not die.”   
  
_I have found the one thing in the universe that can be absolutely counted on is that everything that exists desires to survive. Even you. Perhaps especially you. It is the very nature of life and death itself. You can act as high and mighty as you like about not wanting to kill or fight in the name of Galra, Champion. But at the end of the day every choice made in that ring was yours, and yours alone. Because you wanted to live more than anything. And that is_ you. _At your primal core,_ this is you. _See yourself in truth and accept that you are_ ours. _We don’t delude ourselves hiding what we are, Champion, and neither will you._  
  
“Ssh, Shiro, it’s okay. It’s just a bad dream. It’s okay. There’s nothing bad here.”   
  
“Woah….okay…okay, I think he’s calmer now…I hope. So…this thing is trying to get at us because…?”  
  
 “Shiro’s…not doing so well. And instinctively, he’s fighting to survive right now. And _that’s_ what this thing is tapping into. Even if he’d never attack us himself, that need to live is driving this thing, and it’s trying to interpret that survival need into an action it can take.”  
  
 “But it’s _causing_ him to be sick like this in the first place! It keeps getting _worse!_ ”  
  
 “It’s a twisted feedback loop. Force a person to be in a survival situation. They get weaker. So the tech kicks into high gear to try and survive, and drains more energy to sustain itself and that ‘survival mode,’ which puts more pressure on the person, which makes them weaker, which drives up the need to survive…and on. The only way to break it is to keep taking quintessence. Since we know Shiro was forced to fight in a gladiator ring…that probably means to fight, and fight constantly, just to get your fix. It’s clever, but it’s sick and cruel….”  
  
 “I have never wanted to get my hands on one of those creepy druids so badly…”  
  
 “You’re gonna have to get in line for that one…”  
  
 “But why’s it acting up _now?_ ”  
  
 “My guess? This thing was probably topped up on fuel when he first escaped, and he’s probably been getting little hits of energy every time we used his arm to interface with Galra tech, or when he fought Sendak or Haggar.”  
  
“…But we haven’t fought anything alive recently. It’s just been sentries and more sentries. We almost never come across Galra officers or anything…”  
  
“Right. No quintessence to drain. But he’s been powering it up to fight more and more—that has to have been draining its reserves too fast. And he couldn’t even skim any from us accidentally because he doesn’t use it against us, even in training.”  
  
“So it ran down its stored fuel and started eating at Shiro when it couldn’t find anything else to replace it with. Which kicked into survival mode, and made everything worse.”  
  
 “Who _builds_ shit like this?”  
  
 “The Galra, apparently.”  
  
“But _why?_ ”  
  
“Who knows? We already know they play all kinds of sick and twisted games. This is probably just another one of those.”   
  
“Okay, new topic. This is giving me the jeebies. And Shiro doesn’t seem comfortable with it, either.”  
  
“Does he understand what we’re saying? He seems really out of it…”  
  
He is. He drifts back into the dark.  
  


* * *

  
  
“He any better?”  
  
“Keith! You’re out of the pod! Sorry we weren’t there—“  
  
“It’s fine. I’d rather Shiro have you guys on hand anyway. So. How’s he doing?”  
  
“He’s…he’s holding. We’re feeding him quintessence pretty steadily, and he’s holding on.”  
  
“In just little pieces like that? Why not give him a whole bunch at once?”  
  
“We thought about it, but Allura said it might not be a good idea. The way his prosthetic is consuming quintessence keeps accelerating. We didn’t want him to burn through it all too fast before we could get him help. And it’s a good thing, too—half of this container is already gone, look.”  
  
“Shit. I hope three is enough. I couldn’t get that fourth one…I tried, but—“  
  
“You got shot, Keith. I think that’s a pretty good reason. And we wouldn’t even have these three if you hadn’t ejected us all out into space. That was quick thinking.”  
  
“It’s becoming a more common tactic, honestly.”   
  
“Keith just likes throwing things out airlocks.”   
  
A grumbling noise. “Where’s Hunk? Sleeping off the quintessence drain?”  
  
“Nah. You’ve been out for a bit, he’s already done a lot of resting. He’s putting some broth together. Shiro can’t really handle anything that’s not liquid right now, but he needs strength any way he can get it. Coran says he’s already started losing weight from the quintessence deficiency and he wasn’t really eating right before that…”  
  
“Damn it. I wish this would just be over already.”   
  
“You can say that again.”  
  
A sigh. “Can I trade with you for a bit? I need to do… _something._ Training with the Gladiator doesn’t seem like enough right now.”   
  
“Yeah, sure. Just be careful to wear gloves when you handle this stuff, it’s easy to absorb it by accident and then Shiro doesn’t get it.”  
  
“Right.”   
  
The sounds of movement. Shifting. Something warm and wet on his forehead, a sickly sweet smell, tiny trickles of strength in the void.  
  
He sighs.   
  
He drifts.  
  


* * *

  
  
“We’ll be at the Balmera in about one of your Earth hours. How is our stock of quintessence holding up?”  
  
“We’re almost through this first container. I can’t believe how fast he goes through this stuff. But we’ve still got two more.”  
  
“We should be able to make progress once we get to the Balmera. I know Shay and her people will help us.”  
  
“As long….get….can manage…”

* * *

  
  
“…to Shay, she says she thinks she might know where we can find a good cluster of crystals that can help us. She and her people are asking the Balmera for help and it’s guiding them.”   
  
“Excellent. Hunk, you and Coran will go with them to retrieve the crystal. You are the most familiar with the designs we need. Pidge, prepare whatever it is you need for the correction once the crystal is obtained. Lance and Keith, remain with Shiro, but one of you must remain on call for deployment at any point if extra assistance is needed.”  
  
“You….princess…”  
  
“…ready to….let’s…Coran?”  
  
“….meet…tunnels and search…”  
  


* * *

  
  
“….holding….is….responding to anyone anymore?”  
  
“No. He’s really, _really_ out of it. I’m not sure if he even knows we’re here. At this point I think he’s only even drinking anything on autopilot, and only if we help him with it.”   
  
“Is that already half the second container gone? Geez!”  
  
“Yeah. Arm’s getting twitchier too again. Don’t think he even notices.”   
  
“I told you, in situations like this when its host is severely at risk it’ll start operating independently to preserve them.”   
  
“Yeah, well, it’s freaking me out. Arms shouldn’t think. Geez.”  
  
“Hope Hunk and……to find….out of time…”  
  


* * *

  
  
“…dioed in, they found a crystal that fits all our specifications!”  
  
“Yes! Finally!”  
  
“What’s their ETA?”  
  
“Half an hour, maybe less. They’re on their way now in the Yellow Lion.”  
  
“Great, I’ll start prepping for the repair job. And…we should probably give him a very high dose of quintessence _now,_ now that we actually have a solution. He seemed to actually sleep right after anyone donated. I think it’s the closest we’re gonna get to a working sedative and that’ll be safest and most comfortable for him.”   
  
“Good idea. You start setting up and we’ll get that ready. Keith, can you….container…we can…”  
  


* * *

  
  
When Shiro blinks blearily, the world doesn’t really come into focus and it’s still gray. But his eyes are open. That’s more than he’s used to. Something warm and dry is removed from his forehead a moment later, and he frowns slightly in confusion at the movement.  
  
The others are there. All six of them, and he can feel the mice around his head again. He blinks again, and rasps softly, “I…what…?”  
  
“Hey, Shiro,” Pidge says, smiling. It looks tired, but genuine. “There you are. That extra dose helped, looks like. Guess what? We found a fix.”  
  
Shiro blinks. It takes a very long time for him to realize they’re talking about his arm. And he only realizes it when his metal fingers tap tap tap insistently against the…table?  
  
No. It’s too close to them. Too _close_. He tries to tug it back to himself, hug it against his chest, but it doesn’t move. He feels a hand on his right shoulder before he can do much more, and Coran says sternly, “Don’t pull, Number One. You’ll injure yourself again.”  
  
Again? What? When did…?  
  
“Sorry, Shiro, we had to tie it down. It was getting a little, um, antsy,” Hunk says, sounding apologetic. “But don’t worry. We’re gonna fix all that right now. Me and Pidge and Coran figured out the solution.”  
  
“Don’t touch it,” Shiro slurs wearily. “Don’t. Will kill you.”  
  
“We know all about it and we’ll be real careful, promise,” Pidge says. “We know what we’re doing, Shiro. We’ve got this. We’ll take care of everything, okay?”  
  
“You just gotta trust us,” Lance adds. He smiles.   
  
_Who will you trust? Haggar, or the paladins?_  
  
Shiro swallows, and then nods. “Careful,” he whispers.   
  
“We will be,” Hunk assures. “Promise. And when you wake up you’re gonna feel a lot better. We’re gonna fix all of it.”   
  
“This’ll help you sleep through it,” Keith adds. He approaches with a bowl in his hands, and Shiro can’t make out color but he can see _brightness_ in whatever is inside of it. It smells sickly sweet and makes him cringe a little, but he also has less frightening memories associated with the smell.   
  
Lance takes the bowl and holds it for him, and Keith reaches into it, and Shiro notices he’s wearing the paladin armor gloves, not his usual fingerless ones. He withdraws what looks like a sopping wet hand towel, and carefully wrings it out over Shiro’s head, careful not to spill a drop of it on the pillow or blankets.   
  
The first drop is like warmth and strength and power and _life_ , and for a moment he goes nearly mad with hunger at the feel of it, the taste of it. Then there’s more, as Keith wrings so _much_ of that powerful liquid out for him, and Shiro feels nearly overwhelmed at the burst of sudden sensations that rush through him. His thoughts run faster. He _feels_ things again. Color flickers into his vision, still dulled and nearly gray but it’s _there_ again, and he can see now that the life-giving liquid shimmers yellow. He feels so many different personalities, _too many_ different personalities, energetic-pessimistic-realistic-kind-clever-blunt-angry-sorrowful-conceited-humble-noble-loyal-serene-wild-practical-more-more- _more-moremore_ in a torrent and he can’t tell what’s him anymore there’s so much so much so much—  
  
And _exhaustion._ That’s what hits him hardest of all. He’s felt tired for so long but he’s never been able to sleep. But now he feels stronger again, and with it he can feel his mind already sinking towards rest. _Real_ rest.  
  
“Another dose should work, I think,” Allura says, after placing her hand briefly on Shiro’s temple. “That has helped his energy levels somewhat, but more will allow him to sleep, I think.”  
  
Keith obligingly dumps the hand towel back in the bowl Lance is still holding, soaks it once more in the liquid quintessence, and once again wrings it out over Shiro’s head. The second burst of energy almost feels like too much after how barren Shiro’s _soul_ has been; he almost burns inside, and the colors grow a little brighter, a little more animated. He can make out the strong red of Keith’s jacket and the slashes of pink and purple on Allura’s uniform and it’s so _much_. He never realizes until now just how badly he’d miss _color._   
  
The exhaustion rolls over him even stronger, and he feels his eyelids start to flutter. Lance must catch this, because he says coaxingly, “Just close your eyes and let yourself rest, man. When you wake up this’ll all be done and you’ll feel way better.”  
  
And that…that doesn’t sound terrible. Shiro’s eyes slide closed again, but this time it feels good. Feels restful. His mind still swims in confusion, made up of dozens of different personalities and pieces of people long gone, but he picks out the quiet murmurs of his friends’ voices and it’s like an anchor. He listens, and he relaxes, and for the first time in a long time, stops drifting, and falls into a true sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

 

"Recovery is a process, not an event."  
~Anne Wilson Schaef

* * *

  
When Shiro opens his eyes again, the first thing he notices is color. It’s vivid. Vibrant. He doesn’t remember color ever being this strong, but then again, he doesn’t remember ever losing it so strongly before, either. After his dull gray vision and blurred, indistinct edges, his regular vision is sharp and clear and the colors are absolutely beautiful.   
  
The second thing he notices is _calm._ His mind feels so still, so quiet. His thoughts aren’t churning wildly and still struggling to get anywhere. He doesn’t have a hundred thousand different traits roiling in his head and vying for attention, struggling to still exist. He isn’t hurting, and doesn’t feel sharp pangs of anxiety or fear. He can’t feel that raging, screaming, ravenous _hunger_ for energy and _life_ in the back of his head or at the forefront of his senses.   
  
The void is gone.  
  
Well, not gone _completely_. Shiro still feels a bit hollowed out, still feels tired and kitten-weak and a little sick, and he knows it’s because of that emptiness. But it doesn’t feel nearly so deep and dark and wide anymore. It’s like a deep pit that has since been at least somewhat filled in. And Shiro doesn’t feel the sensation of that pit _taking_ anymore, and that’s what _truly_ stuns him. Before it had been like a black hole, always drawing in energy and never releasing it. Now it’s just a hole—needing to be filled, but not constantly sucking the life out of him to do so.  
  
It feels so… _strange._ Almost unnatural, to Shiro. And he realizes that he’s been living with this every day since he first had his prosthetic forced on him, and it had just been so subtle he almost never noticed. But that drain had always _been there_ , taking and taking and taking, and he had grown accustomed to the way it always just took. Never questioned why he always felt just a little bit tired or off.   
  
Prisoners never got to rest, after all, and neither did defenders of the universe. It was nothing to look twice at…until now, when Shiro realizes just how _different_ he feels.  
  
He feels tired, but he also feels _stunned._ And it’s a mark of how much better he feels that he _can_ feel stunned again, too.   
  
“Shiro?”  
  
He blinks, and turns his head. Pidge is there, sitting on a stool near his cot with her laptop set up on a low table. She’s staring at him, though, and when he meets her eyes she asks, “You know who I am?”  
  
He manages to raise an eyebrow at that. Not the best question to start with. He wonders how out of it he’s been. “Pidge,” he offers, and trades it for, “How long have I been out?”  
  
Pidge’s expression goes from uneasy hope to wide-eyed relief. “Oh, thank goodness,” she sighs. “You’re really back. It’s been almost four days since we fixed your arm, we were starting to get worried.” She turns to look over her shoulder. “Hey! Guys! Shiro’s up!”  
  
“Really for real up?” Shiro hears Lance call back with a yawn. “Because unless it’s black-paladin-Shiro I don’t think I’m gonna get off this couch.”  
  
Shiro’s not sure who else he’s supposed to be exactly. But he tries to raise his voice enough to answer, “I can assign you training exercises if that helps. If it’s been four days…don’t think you’ve done any…”  
  
Wow, his voice sounds terrible. It’s hoarse and his throat feels dry, and the whole combination makes it sound like he hasn’t seriously spoken in days.  
  
But Pidge laughs at his answer, and says, “Yup, that’s really Shiro.”   
  
A moment later Lance crashes into view, slamming down onto a stool at the cot’s side, eyes bright. “Shiro! Great to have you back. Please tell me you were joking about the training though. I don’t think my heart can take it right now.”  
  
Behind him, Keith and Hunk step into view. Hunk yawns, looking half asleep, before muttering something about letting Coran and Allura know, and disappearing out the door.  
  
And they all look so… _relieved._ Shiro wonders just how badly he’s been doing. He can’t…remember most of the details of the past four days at least, and not much beyond that, either. Just bits and pieces of voices and sensations and imagery. Mostly, the only thing he _really_ remembers is that ravenous emptiness, and how it kept growing until he could think of nothing else.  
  
He shudders slightly at the thought.  
  
They frown, and Keith says, “Shiro? You okay?”  
  
“Fine,” Shiro answers immediately. “Just…just fine. I don’t think I’m in top shape right now. Not sure I could do any training today, Lance. You’re safe. For now.”  
  
“That’s to be expected,” a new voice says, and Shiro glances over at the door just in time to see Coran coming through with a laden tray, Hunk and Allura trailing behind him. All four mice are perched on Allura’s shoulders. “After losing as much quintessence as you did you’re bound to be weak for a little while until you have a chance to recharge.”  
  
 _“Everyone_ has been instructed not to let you push yourself,” Allura adds. There’s warning in her tone, but she is smiling a little. Shiro winces a little at that anyway. Based on everyone’s reactions so far, he suspects they’re going to be watching him like a hawk for the next few days at least.   
  
“You should try drinking some water,” Coran adds brightly, as Pidge whisks her laptop off the low table and he sets the tray down on it. “It will be good for your throat, I think. And maybe some of this soup, as well.” Over Coran’s shoulder, Hunk offers Shiro a reassuring smile and mouths the words, _I made it,_ before Shiro’s stomach can rebel at the thought of consuming one of Coran’s concoctions.   
  
Well, that’s a relief at least.  
  
Shiro manages to lever himself into a sit mostly under his own power, with a little help from Keith, who keeps an arm on his shoulder to steady him. It’s far more difficult than it should be, and Shiro’s muscles still feel shaky and weak, but not hopelessly so. It reminds him of recovering after being down with a bad stomach bug or fever for a few days, and just needing a chance to rebuild his strength. He’ll get there.  
  
It’s when he sits that he notices his right arm for the first time. It isn’t bound down anymore, and there’s absolutely nothing different looking about it, which causes Shiro to freeze. He stares at the metal hand uneasily, as memories start to slither back into his head of all the things it had done recently—the way it had attacked on its own, the way it was _dangerous,_ the way it would take the life out of others without a shred of hesitation—  
  
—but right now it looks normal, and acts docile enough. It only moves when he commands it to. There’s no anxious little _tap-tap-tap_ anymore. It doesn’t resist his efforts and isn’t a struggle to move, or a struggle to keep still. But it had looked innocent enough before, and that had hidden awful truths about it. He swallows.  
  
“—iro? Shiro, hey, it’s fine.”  
  
Shiro blinks, and manages to wrench his eyes away from the arm at his side to stare at Pidge. “Wh…what?”  
  
“It’s fine,” Pidge repeats, slow and patient. “It’s safe. We fixed it, so you don’t have to worry about it. See?” And she calmly picks up his metal hand and wraps the prosthetic’s fingers around her own wrist before he can stop her.  
  
And Shiro feels _panic,_ because the void might not be as ravenous as it was, but he’s still got a hole in him where a piece of his soul is supposed to be, and he _knows_ how this offending piece of Galra technology intends to fill it. He wants to pull his hand away, but Pidge holds on firmly, and—  
  
—and nothing happens. Nothing at all. His metal fingers don’t fasten on to her arm so tightly they crush bone. He doesn’t feel her bright green quintessence, that curiosity and adventurousness and stubbornness that he remembers from before. Doesn’t feel the prosthetic pull at her energy. Doesn’t feel that wild, survivor part of himself struggle to steal it away.   
  
He stares at his hand, and Pidge waits patiently for a moment before repeating, “We fixed it. No need to worry.”   
  
“We can explain everything, but Coran’s right, you really should drink something and try to eat,” Hunk adds. “Maybe we can explain while you eat?”  
  
Pidge releases his hand, and Shiro takes it back slowly, flexing his metal fingers once or twice. They behave perfectly. If he didn’t know better he’d never suspect them of being capable of something as horrific as stealing away another’s quintessence. They don’t look like anything more than an exceptionally advanced prosthetic.   
  
He sighs after a moment, but his rumbling stomach makes the decision for him, and he nods. “Alright,” he agrees.  
  
Actually doing as they ask is a bit tricky. After spending days being cared for, Shiro is almost desperate for a little independence, but not quite strong enough to manage it fully. The team seems to pick up on this and manages to compromise. Keith wordlessly sits back to back with him on the edge of the cot, allowing Shiro to more or less sit up under his own power but lean on Keith if he needs the support. He manages small sips of water (like heaven on his throat) or soup (flavorful and tasty but still simple to eat) on his own, but is able to hand them off to Lance or Pidge on either side of him if he needs a minute or feels like he’s about to drop the cup or bowl. Hunk keeps both constantly refilled, and Shiro doesn’t realize how truly ravenous he is for actual _food_ until he hits the end of the third bowl and is still ready for more.   
  
And while he eats, they fill him in on everything that’s happened since he’s been out of it. They explain how they’d made a guerrilla strike against a Galra warship in order to steal vats of raw quintessence to sustain him, and how they’d then rushed for the Balmera at full speed to get the crystals needed for Shiro’s arm. Shiro vaguely recalls overhearing that as part of the plan, and vaguely remembers being upset by it, because it was such a huge risk to take that shouldn’t have been taken for someone like _him._ Now, while he’s still not happy they put themselves in such danger, he also feels honored that they considered him worth the risk at all.   
  
But he doesn’t remember much of what happened after the actual plan was made. From the sounds of it, the initial plan had been very similar to the tactic they used to snatch the Red Lion out of Galra hands—Hunk, Lance and the Castle of Lions provided a distraction, while Keith and Pidge slipped in using the Green Lion’s cloaking technology, and snuck around the interior looking for quintessence. They’d found the vats being delivered, but had been discovered halfway. Keith had vehemently refused to give up the containers of quintessence and had fought like a wild animal to secure their escape route, but had been severely injured in the process, and he and Pidge had nearly been captured. It had only been due to Keith’s quick thinking—ejecting himself, Pidge, the containers, and all of their enemies out the hangar airlock of the ship to the waiting Blue Lion—that allowed them to escape not just alive, but with their prize.  
  
“That was a terrible risk,” Shiro says, shaking his head. “You could have been killed fighting for those containers.”  
  
He can feel Keith’s shoulders tense against his back, and the red paladin answers sharply, “Yeah, well, abandoning them and running wasn’t an option. If we had you _would_ have died. That was a worse risk.” The others nod in agreement, each one solemn. Shiro doesn’t have the heart to argue further after seeing those faces.   
  
They explain how they’d used the quintessence similarly to a constant blood transfusion to just keep him afloat while they’d gone to the Balmera for help. The Balmerans had been welcoming, and upon hearing their plight had immediately agreed to assist the paladins with finding the exact perfect crystal for their specifications to adapt it to Shiro’s prosthetic.   
  
“They actually gave us five crystals,” Hunk says. “We used the best one, but we have the other four stored away for backups. The one you’re using now shouldn’t run out of power on its own, but if something gets damaged later at least we’ll have replacements without having to deal with all of _this_ again.”  
  
Shiro is grateful for that, at least.  
  
“We replaced the power source,” Pidge adds, sounding particularly pleased with herself, like she’s solved an especially difficult puzzle. “It definitely wasn’t easy, but we figured out a way to do it without permanently damaging your nervous system or draining out the rest of your quintessence by accident. And we had to be _really_ careful about that part. There were some nasty traps left behind to prevent you from ever just removing the arm or turning off the full functionality. If we had tried either of those it would’ve just drained you dry or done permanent damage to your nervous system, or both. Not good options.”  
  
That hardly surprises Shiro, really. Haggar is…Haggar is not the kind of person who takes losses well. If she can’t used her cursed hand to mess with him, to turn him into a weapon of her own creation, then at the least she’ll never permit his freedom. She’d rather he die before he ever obtained that.   
  
“We’re lucky we found them ahead of time,” Pidge continues, oblivious to the thoughts in Shiro’s head, “but we had to go real slow to work in the replacement. But it should be powered by the crystal, now, not by quintessence that it gets from either you or an external source. And if something _does_ go wrong on a mission or whatever, we left the internal energy storage in place and that’s already maxed out, so you’ll have backup long enough to at least limp back to the Castle for repairs before it just stops working.”   
  
“We found the function that lets it obtain external quintessence, too,” Hunk says. His voice is slow and deliberate, and Shiro can tell he’s considering his vocabulary carefully before saying it to avoid anything even remotely accusatory. That sends a little sting of hurt through Shiro, but it’s more at himself than Hunk, and he tries to smother it. “It was hard to find it at first since it’s pretty heavily integrated with the same functionality that lets you power up your hand for combat, but we managed to disable it. Though, when you’re feeling better and Coran and Allura authorize it again, we might want to run some basic tests on the training deck to see if you’re still fully operational for the other stuff.”  
  
“That’s fine,” Shiro agrees. Though he has a strong feeling those tests won’t be permitted for quite some time, based on Allura and Coran’s stern looks.   
  
“And there was…something else,” Pidge says slowly, glancing at the others uneasily.   
  
Shiro feels his stomach twist uncomfortably, and suddenly feels ill. “Yeah?”  
  
“Well, it’s just that…” Pidge hesitates, and seems to be considering how to explain. “The…the way your arm was initially wired to your brain, it was…it was more complex than we originally figured.”  
  
“And we had been kinda wondering why it sometimes seemed to be doing things without you realizing it,” Hunk adds. “It was…it was sort of hard to tell at first, because you were really out of it, or we’d startle you or something without meaning to, so at first it didn’t seem really out of place, but…”  
  
“Guys,” Shiro interrupts. He can feel ice in his stomach, but he tries to push on as sternly as possible. “You don’t have to beat around the bush. Just…just tell me. If you think it’s important I need to know.”  
  
Pidge and Hunk exchange glances. “Fair enough,” Pidge finally says with a sigh. “Shiro, your prosthetic was set to act independently from your conscious thoughts if you ever found yourself in a life or death survival situation. It was programmed to function based on your instinctive survival needs instead at that point, and do whatever it could to preserve you. The idea being that if you died, it kinda died too. Or at least became useless.”   
  
“The key word there is ‘was,’ “ Hunk adds hastily. “We figured out how to fix that too. Well, actually, that was all Coran’s work there. That stuff was all buried in the nervous system connections and Pidge and I were a little scared to touch it.”  
  
Coran snaps the edge of his mustache with his fingers and stands straight-backed, looking quite pleased with himself. “Not surprising, really. It wasn’t easy even for an Altean to manage! But I was able to create enough scans of your brain compared to the setup of the prosthetic to pinpoint the problem area and address it. I couldn’t cut out the wiring to the survival components of your brain completely, but I was able to reduce the strength of those impulses to the prosthetic, and the intensity of its responses. According to the comparable scans I did of the rest of the paladin’s brains and conversation about human biology, I believe it’s comparable to standard human survival response now. It shouldn’t override your conscious thought, or act outside of your direct command any more.”  
  
“Oh.” And…and Shiro supposes that’s a relief, in a way. He stares down at the bowl in both hands, resting on his lap, and draws one of the metal fingers absently against the edge of the container. It won’t act independently, and that’s definitely a good thing. He vaguely remembers the few times it launched at his friends, or struggled to free itself from its bonds because there was energy so close and he was so _desperate_ for it. He’s glad that’s not an issue anymore. That he can’t hurt or kill his team by accident through sheer, wild need to survive.   
  
But still…as much of a relief as it is to know the prosthetic won’t take independent action and harm someone through its attempts to preserve its own host…the fact of the matter is that this fix is only treating a symptom. The prosthetic…it _feels_ like something evil, something awful, a cursed thing forcing him to act against his will, or that acts of its own accord.  
  
But the fact of the matter is, at the end of the day, it’s not any of those things—it’s just a tool. It never forced him to act against his will at all. It just reacted to the raw force of pure instinct in his head. And yes, maybe the reaction was over the top and extremely violent due to the way it was programmed—but the cause is _still there._ The code might be diminished now, but the wild animal, the rabid _thing_ that will do anything to survive, is still in Shiro’s head.   
  
_Because you wanted to live more than anything. And that is_ you _. At your primal core,_ this is you _. See yourself in truth and accept that you are ours._  
  
He’s still less than human. They’ve just made it a lot harder to spot, is all.   
  
He feels like he might be sick.  
  
“Shiro?” Lance frowns at him, and tilts his head to the side in concern. “You okay, man?”  
  
“I…I’m tired. Just tired.” It’s not a lie—he’s _extremely_ tired, now that he thinks about it—but he just…doesn’t want to address those thoughts with them. Not right now. Not when they’ve already fought so hard to save him and have no idea what kind of thing it is they’re trying to defend.  
  
“Only natural,” Coran says, snapping his mustache again. “You had quite a quintessence deficiency there. We’ve eliminated the drain, but it’ll still take you some time to rejuvenate your quintessence, and until then you’re liable to feel weaker and a little out of sorts.”  
  
“I’ve been monitoring your quintessence levels,” Allura adds. “Now that your natural quintessence isn’t being drained constantly it’s growing stronger again. I imagine after a week or so it should regrow enough that it can gain some momentum for rebuilding itself. Under normal circumstances it seems your quintessence is quite healthy, given the opportunity, and very strong. But that is hardly surprising for a black paladin.”  
  
“We gave you a big dose of that raw quintessence we stole too, just to get your energy levels up and help you start getting your own quintessence rolling again,” Lance adds. “And Allura says that helped since it gave you enough energy to kinda fuel your own quintessence growing again. Only, it kinda did some weird stuff to you, too…”   
  
Shiro frowns at that. Keith must feel something in the tension of his shoulders, because he adds from behind Shiro, “It wasn’t anything _bad_ , it was just…unsettling, I guess. That stuff must’ve had memories or something in it. For the past couple days sometimes you’d kind of be awake, but you would be really out of it. Talk about different things, act like someone else entirely. We weren’t really…sure how to react. It was you, but it also definitely wasn’t you. If that makes sense.”  
  
“No. It does.” Shiro frowns deeper. That certainly explains Lance’s and Pidge’s reactions when he first woke. He remembers, distantly, feeling the pieces of hundreds of different souls, thousands of different personality traits, each rushing through him and into the void too fast to follow. The thought again of the Galra stealing those lives, that energy, and eradicating all of those individuals makes him feels sick. “They weren’t memories. They were echoes. Of whoever the quintessence belonged to. I could…I could kind of feel it. But whatever the Galra did…they were just parts of those people or things. The…the ‘whole’ was just kinda gone. There wasn’t anything solid enough for it to last on its own.”   
  
His team exchanges confused, uneasy glances. Allura finally cuts in. “While that is unfortunate, and it is truly reprehensible what the Galra have done—“   
  
—It takes all of Shiro’s willpower to keep from flinching, or Keith will feel it—  
  
“—I can say after monitoring your energy that your own quintessence has started to assert itself, at least. That donated energy was enough to help you survive, long enough for your natural quintessence to start to rejuvenate. And, based on the way you are acting, it seems to already be hard at work regrowing itself.” She offers a smile. “I hope that in approximately a few weeks you will be feeling much better, both internally and physically.”  
  
“Yeah. Thanks, all of you. For all of this. Helping to find a solution, and looking out for me when I wasn’t doing so well.” It feels like a tired, weak thanks, but it’s all he can manage right now. A few weeks. Maybe in a few weeks he’ll be fighting fit again, at least. Maybe his quintessence will even be back to normal. But he doesn’t think he’s going to be feeling better. Not when he knows exactly what kind of monster he really is, now, what he’s really capable of. What he’s _done._   
  
“Okay, why don’t we let Shiro get a little more rest,” Hunk says, after an awkward moment of silence. “He still looks pretty beat and we _all_ know how exhausting it is to rejuvenate quintessence at this point.”  
  
Shiro fights back a pang of guilt at that.   
  
“You can take it easy,” Lance adds brightly. “We left the Balmera so we wouldn’t bring any Galra ships down on them in case they were looking for us, but we’re hiding out on another planet now. All of us kinda need a little time to recharge at this point. So we can all take whatever time we need to do that, no need to rush to get better.”  
  
“We definitely won’t be letting you rush through getting better,” Keith mutters, as he stands up slowly and lets Shiro re-adjust to his now-absent presence.   
  
Shiro is pretty sure they won’t. And they mean well, he knows. It’s just…frustrating. All of this is so frustrating. That they all clearly care so much and are trying so hard to support him, and they have no idea what kind of person it is they’re supporting at all. They think he’s some kind of trustworthy, noble leader who’s just gotten a little sick and needed the help to get better. They have no idea what kind of savage, selfish person he really is.   
  
And he can’t bear to tell them. Not yet. Selfish as it is, as much as he doesn’t deserve it, that warmth and support and kindness feels so safe, so comforting. He doesn’t want to lose it and he knows he will. So he doesn’t tell them and he drains that warmth and support out of them and takes and takes without giving back.   
  
They may have fixed his arm to not steal quintessence, but at the end of the day he really is still a goddamn parasite.  
  
But they don’t know it, and they quiet down as he wordlessly hands off the bowl to Lance and settles down on the cot again. He rolls onto his side, curling the prosthetic against himself, and falls into an exhausted, sickly doze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you guys believe there’s only one chapter left? I sure can’t. Time flies!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp. Here we are. The last chapter. 
> 
> By far the hardest to write. Endings are hard. Emotional stuff is harder.
> 
> I hope it satisfies.

* * *

 

"I discovered I always have choices, and sometimes it's only a choice of attitude."  
~Judith M. Knowlton

* * *

 

  
Shiro spends most of the next week sleeping.   
  
The first two days he’s basically always asleep, waking only in small intervals to eat and drink. By the third day he’s a little more active, enough to finally leave the cot, which is comfortable but something he’s truly starting to get sick of. But he still finds himself napping almost constantly in little areas around the ship—his bunk, the lounge couches, the black paladin’s seat at the bridge. Once he falls asleep at the dining table, head resting on folded hands, and Hunk has to shake him awake and urge him to go somewhere a little more comfortable.   
  
After that he feels a little more active, at least, and spends more of his time awake. He still takes long naps when he feels like it—and he feels like he’s making up for a year’s worth of sleep, honestly—but he’s also able to spend more of his time being conscious.   
  
And, while he does still feel tired, he does also feel better, at least a little bit. That empty hole inside of him fills up a little more every day, and gradually feels less and less oppressive, its weight not dragging his mind down constantly. His thoughts feel sharp again, and he can make decisions once more without freezing up or forgetting the very concept of how to choose anything. He’s not permitted to physically train yet (and the team has kept a _very_ close eye on him to prevent it). But he does feel more physically fit, and as the days pass he starts taking slow, exploratory walks around the castle hallways. In another week he thinks he really will be capable of handling basic training exercises, at least.  
  
And he can _feel_ again. And that, of all the things Shiro has regained, is probably the one he regrets the most. Because the more time he spends awake, the more time he has to think. And the more time he has to think, the more time he has to dwell on everything he’s learned about himself since this quintessence deficiency began, to run through the new memories he’s regained, to think about the words _she_ said. And they hurt. They hurt so bad he wishes he couldn’t feel it at all. That was, perhaps, the _only_ blessing about being as low on quintessence as he had been.   
  
It isn’t so much the knowledge that he’s killed in the ring before that really bothers him. It’s unsettling, to have the memories of at least two violent kills to his credit, and strong implications of others, but it isn’t unexpected. It had been a Galra gladiator arena—death was inevitable there. Even before this whole debacle, shortly after he reclaimed his first memory of the fight against Myzax, he had honestly suspected it as a strong possibility for quite some time.   
  
But back then, he had felt safe in the knowledge that he at least _knew_ he never would have done it willingly. The Galra had forced him into the arena and had never given him an option—he had to fight or he’d die. Given the opportunity, Shiro knew he would never have willingly fought to kill, and he’d felt safe in the knowledge that maybe he _had_ done some truly awful things, but only because he’d never had any other choice. He knew he’d escaped as soon as he could to get away from that hell. And he knows he’s since done everything in his power to try and prevent anything like that from ever happening again, for himself or for others.   
  
But that isn’t the case anymore. Shiro thought he’d known himself, but he realizes now he never has. He’d honestly _craved_ the most dangerous fights in the arena. He’d _wanted_ them, because he’d wanted that thrill of feeling alive. Of _taking_ life. His own brain had fueled the violent impulses that drove his prosthetic to drain and kill. And maybe he hadn’t known what he was doing at first, but that’s hardly an excuse. He’d _wanted_ to beat them at the end of the day, hadn’t regretted killing the worst of the worst he’d met in the ring for a second. He’d been disappointed every time he let innocent slaves and prisoners live, even though it had been the right thing to do, because he hadn’t been able to steal their quintessence. And he’d taken the energy of several other fighters even _after_ he’d learned what his arm could do, _was_ doing, before he’d finally managed to escape. There’s _no_ excuse for that, no way to justify it.   
  
In the end, he’s simply as bloodthirsty and battle-hungry as the Galra that had kidnapped him, still as selfish and wild and determined to survive at _any_ cost. The prosthetic isn’t an excuse anymore, just the tool that let him do it. This thing doesn’t make him a monster. Haggar didn’t even do that. He made himself one.   
  
He doesn’t deserve to be here.   
  
It’s the only answer he can come to, after days of wandering by himself in the hallways, replaying his new memories over and over again in his mind. Re-examining his actions. Thinking of everything from every possible angle until his head hurts. He doesn’t deserve to be the black paladin, not knowing what he knows about himself now. They can’t have something like him leading them, not when he’s capable of actions just as heinous and cruel as the opponents they’re facing. The team deserves someone they really _can_ follow without hesitation, someone who _is_ in control at all times, without having to wonder if his instincts and his actions will lead them all to their deaths or into something unknown and truly dangerous.  
  
He considers the decision for well over a day. He has to be sure it’s right. It’s the last decision he’ll make for them, and he has to be _sure_. But nothing comes to mind that could possibly make him consider changing it, and he finally decides to make his choice.  
  
It means he’ll have to tell them what he’s done. And that’s going to hurt. But they have to _know_ why he can’t lead them anymore. They have to _understand_ why this is important. Because they won’t, otherwise. Shiro knows because he’s felt their loyalty and their protection of him firsthand. He has literally seen into their souls, seen how they think and feel, and he knows they won’t back down without a good reason.   
  
So it will hurt, but he has to do this. He can’t be there to endanger them, and he can’t be a parasite feeding off their loyalty and love any longer. It’s not right of him and it’s not safe for them. He can’t lead them into the dark blindly. He won’t.  
  
He makes the announcement just before dinner, when all seven of them are together. They’re joking and laughing together, but quietly, enough to not disturb him. They’ve been so careful and patient with him recently, giving him space if he needs it, letting him rest, but always being around nearby just to remind him he isn’t alone. It’s been comforting. It will be sad to lose that.  
  
“I need to say something,” he starts, a little awkwardly, but it works. The other six cut off their conversations and joking, and Coran sets down the bowl of food goo in his hands on the table to give Shiro his full attention. They’re all staring at him, waiting, and Shiro feels his heart pang uncomfortably in his chest.   
  
Well, he’s already begun things. He may as well end them.   
  
“The past couple of weeks have been…difficult,” he says slowly. Carefully. He doesn’t want to meet anyone’s eyes, but he forces himself to do so anyway, looking between all of them as he speaks. Strength. He can present that much. For this, it’s important that he does so. “You’ve all worked very hard to help me. The sacrifices you made were incredible. You fought hard, bent rules and ideals, and literally gave pieces of yourself, all to save my life. And I can’t tell you how thankful I am for that.”  
  
They’d been smiling at first at the praise, but by the end none of them are, and they all look solemn….solemn, and a little worried. After a moment Lance prompts slowly, “But?”  
  
Because of course he knew there was something else. The blue quintessence spots those little details in people too quickly. And of course they were all picking up on it now. They work so well as a team, trust each others’ instincts and skills where it matters. Shiro knows he can’t get anything past them now, not after having felt what each of them was really capable of.  
  
“But,” he says, with a slight nod to Lance in acknowledgement, “Considering recent developments, I…I have decided I’m no longer a fit candidate as the black paladin.”  
  
For a moment, there is a stunned silence, as everyone stares at him. Then all at once, everyone is speaking.  
  
 _“Not a fit candidate?”_  
  
“No way! Shiro, you’re the _best_ paladin—“  
  
“—can’t possibly think you’re bad at this—“  
  
“—no way we can do all this without you man—“  
  
 _“Not a fit candidate?_ How do you even—you’re the best leader _ever_ Shiro—“  
  
“Enough!” Allura yells, loudly enough that everyone else quiets. Once there is silence, she turns to look Shiro in the eye, and says firmly, “I do not believe there is any evidence to support this decision. Not once have I seen you fail at your duties, and your paladins—“ she gestures around the table, “—are clearly upset with your choice, so you are not leading your men improperly. Illness is certainly _not_ grounds for failure. You are permitted to be ill, Shiro—especially when it is in no way your fault.”  
  
Her eyes fall on his prosthetic as she finishes speaking. He clenches his metal fist automatically in reaction.   
  
“It’s not that my quintessence was drained,” he says slowly. “And before you try it, it isn’t that I’m not thinking clearly _because_ of that, either,” he adds, cutting her off when she looks like she’s about to speak again. “This isn’t a decision I’m making lightly. It isn’t a decision that’s being warped by my quintessence levels or anything else. It’s an informed decision based on other developments.”  
  
“Memories,” Keith interjects suddenly. His eyes narrow slightly as he frowns. “You remembered something, didn’t you?”  
  
Keith cuts to the heart of the problem quickly and efficiently. Shiro expects nothing less after witnessing the sharp instincts of the red quintessence firsthand. He swallows slightly, but nods. “Yes.”  
  
“It doesn’t have to do with the draining thing, does it?” Pidge asks, also frowning. “Because we fixed that, Shiro. And it wasn’t your fault anyway. It’s not like you asked for them to install quintessence draining hardware. You can’t blame yourself for _that._ ” The others nod insistently in agreement.  
  
“It isn’t that either,” Shiro says slowly. “Not exactly that, anyway.” He sighs, closes his eyes for a moment, works up the nerve to speak. _Just do it. Get it over with. Cut fast, cut deep, sever yourself quickly. Don’t draw it out, it will hurt too much._   
  
“I…regained a few memories of my imprisonment. Arena fights. Conversations with…with Haggar. The druid. They…revealed some things about me that were disturbing. Not things that were acceptable for a defender of the universe. Not things that are acceptable in general. Considering this new information, I don’t consider myself fit to lead. Or to even be here. It’s dangerous.”   
  
There’s silence, for a moment. Then Hunk says slowly, “Can you…can you tell us what you saw? If that’s okay? It’s hard to understand when we don’t know what you’re talking about…”  
  
Shiro doesn’t want to. But they deserve to know that much. So he nods, and he tells them. He tells them everything he remembers, now. The conversation with Haggar after his arm is taken and replaced. His first fights with the prosthetic, when he leaves the slaves alive and feels the worse for it. His defeat of Harronox, and how alive it made him feel. The way he all but craves the deadlier fights, the way he doesn’t regret putting down those monsters, the thrill he gets at _living_. His fight with Dagger-in-the-Dark, when he discovers what his prosthetic really _does_ , the way he couldn’t help himself and stole her life away even when he didn’t intend to. The way there were still other fights and still other stolen quintessences even _after_ he knew. He lays it all bare in front of them, and the longer he goes on, the less he meets their eyes, and the more he stares at the bowl of food goo on the table.   
  
By the end he’s not looking at any of them at all, and he’s aware his voice shakes slightly as he speaks. It hurts so badly to dredge up those terrible memories, that knowledge of what he’s done. But they have to understand why he can’t be here anymore. Why he’s dangerous. And this is the only way. So he digs in the dagger deep, and then waits for more wounds to come.   
  
“That’s why I can’t be trusted as a leader any longer,” he finishes finally. “I’m not capable of making acceptable decisions, either to fit the Altean paladin code or just in general. The prosthetic might have exacerbated it, but those decisions to fight for the thrill and to steal that quintessence were ultimately still _mine._ No one else’s. And I can’t claim to be any kind of leader, or even a member of team Voltron, if these are the kind of thoughts that drive me. So. That’s…that’s everything. You can leave me at whatever port we find next on whatever planet. It might even be safer. The Galra are looking for me especially, but if we split up it might take some of the pressure off of the rest of—“  
  
“Are you _out of your freakin’ mind?”_ Lance interrupts, his voice nearly a high pitched shriek.  
  
The noise jerks Shiro out of his thoughts, and he glances up in surprise. Lance is wearing an incredulous look mixed partly with horror, and the others have similar stunned expressions.   
  
“No,” Shiro says, slowly, frowning. “This was all me, like I just—“  
  
“Expression, Shiro, it’s an _expression,_ ” Hunk says. “We can’t believe you are honestly even considering _leaving_ is all and Lance just chose to pick a _terrible_ turn of phrase to express that—“  
  
“What he said,” Lance says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Hunk. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I just…you can’t think you seriously have to leave?”  
  
“Of course I do,” Shiro says, as reasonably as he can. “It’s the only option. Based on all of the things I’ve done—“  
  
“Because they _forced_ you to,” Keith interrupts. “It wasn’t you that did _any_ of that, Shiro. It was _Galra_. They _forced_ you to do all of that.”  
  
But Shiro shakes his head, insistent. He _needs_ them to understand this. It’s important. “It _was_ me,” he stresses. “I know you want to believe otherwise, but these were _my_ actions. The Galra may have forced me to _make_ a choice, but I’m the one that _chose._ I chose to go for the kills. I chose to _survive_. It was _my_ impulses that caused _this_ thing to act.” He holds up his metal arm, and stares at it for a long moment before clenching his fist closed.   
  
“That was Haggar’s whole point,” he says, almost in a whisper. “And she was right. She was _right._ I thought I’d been resisting the whole time. I thought I wasn’t like them. But I am. I _am_. She was right. _Sendak_ was right.”  
  
“I can’t believe I _actually_ just heard you say you think _Sendak_ and that creepy witch lady were right about you,” Pidge says incredulously. “ _Listen_ to yourself, Shiro. Are you even hearing yourself?”  
  
“Yes,” Shiro says firmly. He hates it, but it’s true. “I am. I’ve been trying to deny it ever since we first formed Team Voltron, but this isn’t something that can be ignored anymore.”  
  
The rest of the paladins look ready to argue, but Allura cuts them off. “Shiro. I understand that you feel very strongly about this. But might I ask you a question?” He nods slowly, unsure, and Allura looks him straight in the eye as she says, “If this was truly _you_ , your actions and your choice, as you are saying—why would Haggar have to go through so much trouble to manipulate you?”  
  
Shiro opens his mouth to answer—and pauses.   
  
“By your own admission,” Allura says slowly, “she admitted to your morals not matching the Galra Empire’s own, and she claimed she wanted you to be theirs. She admitted that your mind would still be your own at the end of the day even through the use of skills like mental control or enforced kills, and that this did not satisfy her. You deduced yourself that she deliberately manipulated the roster of opponents you would face in the arena to force you into situations where you would be desperate enough to fight and distracted by your own quintessence deficiency, even if you didn’t understand what that meant at the time. It’s all very clever, but it is also all smoke and mirrors, just like the illusions she favors in combat. If you were _really_ like them, Shiro, you would have accepted their offer of power on the first day. There would be no _need_ to use such an elaborate scheme to trick you into fighting to begin with.”  
  
And Shiro…doesn’t quite know what to say to that. He hadn’t…considered it that way, exactly. But now that it’s put in front of him like that…why _had_ Haggar been forced to manipulate him like that, exactly? Because Allura is right, in a way…they _did_ offer him power and rank and freedom from the arena. He doesn’t remember the offers, but he remembers the memory of refusing, and that’s enough to tell him he’d been given the offer and refused it initially. That Haggar had been forced to trick him at all is a big hole in his argument, but…  
  
“Even if it was through manipulation…I still chose to attack those opponents,” Shiro says slowly.   
  
“I don’t remember hearing at any point your story where they actually gave you a choice in the matter,” Lance says, arms crossed. “If you didn’t fight you’d have been slaughtered.”  
  
“And if you hadn’t chosen to fight at least one of them, my brother would be dead,” Pidge adds. She looks serious. “And, based on the sounds of it, a lot of other innocent people who never asked to be there would be, too. But they’re _all_ alive, and maybe we can rescue them one day and they can go _home._ Because of _you._ ”  
  
Keith nods. “They never gave you a choice, but you damn well chose anyway. You chose to fight _them_. You chose to _resist._ That makes all the difference.”  
  
Shiro shakes his head. “I still stole that quintessence. I’m no better than them.”  
  
“No, the _hardware_ stole the quintessence,” Hunk says with a frown. “I don’t believe for a second that you would have considered something like stealing the life force from others, even your opponents, on your own. You might not remember it, but we were _there_ to see how badly you freaked out when you thought you’d hurt _us_ with it. There’s no way you’d do something like that on purpose.”   
  
“But I _did_ ,” Shiro insists. “I _wanted_ that energy. I don’t think you understand how badly I _needed_ it. I…I actually tried to kill you, Hunk. And Pidge. You too. Because I wasn’t strong enough to resist it. That was _me._ ”  
  
Lance shakes his head. “No way, Shiro. I don’t know if you remember it, but I actually had to coach you into taking Hunk’s quintessence because you straight up cut yourself off from it, even _with_ Allura feeding it to you. You know what that means? That means you were _starving_ for energy and you _still_ refused to take that it when it was offered. Because you didn’t want to hurt one of us. You know how much willpower that _takes?_ I don’t think I could be strong enough to do that. And you want to honestly tell us you don’t deserve to be here?”  
  
“I don’t,” Shiro says. Why aren’t they _getting_ this? “I _did_ take quintessence on purpose. I wanted those fights with those opponents so badly. I might not have known why at the time, but it was because I wanted their quintessence. I needed it. And…even after I learned what this thing did, I still…I still stole that energy from several other opponents. Willingly. _Knowingly._ ”   
  
“Do you remember those fights?” Keith asks, frowning. “Because you didn’t tell us about those.”  
  
Shiro frowns as well. “No…no, I…I don’t have the memories of the battles, I just…I know. There were more.”  
  
“So you have no proof that you willfully and deliberately stole any quintessence after learning what your arm did?” Pidge presses, eyeing Keith. The two are clearly on the same page.  
  
“No…but—“  
  
“And did you know how to control the draining thing? Because it didn’t seem like you knew how, based on your stories. Or while you’ve been sick recently,” Pidge continues. “You could never get your fingers to unfasten from whatever you’d grabbed onto when it was trying to find an energy source.”   
  
“I…I don’t know,” Shiro says slowly. “I’m not sure if…I don’t know if there’s a way to control it…”  
  
“Do you know how many fights there were after you knew?”  
  
Shiro stares at his hand. “Not…not too many. I must have escaped at that point.”  
  
“So what you’re saying,” Pidge concludes, pushing her glasses up, “Is that you were in a scenario where you were, essentially, starving, with a piece of hardware programmed to operate independently from your own conscious actions that you didn’t have the ability to control, and put into fights that you couldn’t evade because you weren’t permitted to. You were given literally _no_ control over the situation. But you want us to blame you for the outcome?”  
  
“And you escaped as soon as you could,” Lance adds. “So you obviously didn’t _want_ to stick around and keep fighting and draining opponents. The moment you had an opportunity and the tiniest bit of control back, you got the hell out of there.”   
  
“I…” Shiro supposes he shouldn’t really be stunned by the way they all rally to defend him, or the strength and conviction of their words. He’s _felt_ their convictions and their loyalty first hand, from all of them. He almost wants to believe them. But… “It’s not _right_ ,” he insists. “I should have been stronger. I should have fought _harder_ to resist them. I should have realized what was happening. I shouldn’t have wanted those fights so _badly_. I shouldn’t have made those choices.”  
  
“Shiro.” And now it’s Coran speaking, but not with his usual chipper tone and bright smile. He looks serious, now, arms folded behind his back like a servant, but his eyes are old and knowing, and Shiro sees a soldier in them. “If the situation was different—if it was one of the paladins, perhaps, or one of the other humans you were captured with, or even one of the other prisoners—would you be this hard on them?”  
  
No. _No._ Of course he wouldn’t. Just the thought of imaging Hunk or Lance or Pidge or Keith struggling to survive day after day in the arena is enough to send ice up his spine. The thought of Matt or Commander Holt or one of the other prisoners berating themselves for being so weak in the face of such _emptiness_ makes his heart ache. He doesn’t want to imagine them suffering like that. Punishing themselves like that. Not when they couldn’t control what happened to them.   
  
Coran seems to know exactly what he’s thinking, because without waiting for an answer, he finishes with, “Why are you being so harsh on yourself, then?”  
  
Because Shiro knows himself. He knows he can be _better_ than that. And he’d just…he’d just failed. He’d let himself become a parasite, literally feeding on the lives of others to sustain himself one more day.   
  
“Shiro.” Allura again, only this time her voice is soft and patient. “I understand that you feel you’e made the wrong choices or done reprehensible things as a prisoner. But there was never a choice before you, no matter how much you’ve been convinced to see that there was. This was not a matter of choice. This was another form of torture. You were a prisoner and you were starving—not just for food, but for fundamental life essence itself. That was being withheld and stolen from _you._ It put you in a terrible situation where you were severely sick and did not understand why, or understand what was happening to you, and they used that to manipulate you.   
  
“ _That_ is the truly monstrous action here, that they took advantage of your situation and abused your energy starvation, to force your hand and corner you into taking actions you would never have considered in your right mind. Considering the circumstances, you not only survived as best as you could, you _still_ took whatever action you could to resist the Galra, from protecting those other prisoners in the ring to escaping. That is a frankly incredible feat that only a truly honorable paladin could manage. And I do not think for a _second_ that trying to stay alive in those conditions was wrong, or punishable, or selfish, as you are implying. There is no crime in wanting to live.”   
  
Coran nods in agreement. “It might be difficult to see it,” he says, “but you aren’t at fault, here, no matter how much it might feel like it. The only ones responsible for what happened in that arena are the Galra. The fact that this is hurting you as badly as it is seems indication enough that those things were never you at all. You’ve already begun to do everything in your power to resist them and make things right again. _No one_ is less like the Galra then you. You’re allowed to move past this.” He smiles. “And certainly, I think you’re allowed to stay.”   
  
“Yes!” Lance and Hunk chorus at nearly the same time. “Don’t go, nobody _wants_ you to leave!”  
  
“You’re a great leader,” Pidge says stubbornly, nodding. “The best leader. I don’t want to follow anyone else.”  
  
“ _None_ of this is your fault,” Keith agrees. “I’ll face anyone who says otherwise. Nobody’s got the right to accuse you of that.”  
  
And Shiro is just…overwhelmed. At their fierce loyalty, at their absolute dedication, at their protectiveness. They absolutely believe everything they are saying. They’ve heard _everything_ he’s said, _all_ the memories that he’s regained, and still he can feel that warmth. That kindness. That caring. They all show it in their own, unique ways, but it’s still _there_.   
  
They’ve seen his soul laid bare, seen the exposed, worst, rotting parts of it—and they’re not disgusted, not afraid, not angry. They offer support and protection instead. They offer validation. They grant him permission to move on, to forgive himself, to recognize he’s only human. And he feels…he feels relief. Gratefulness. Love. He feels trusted. He feels wanted. Needed.   
  
He doesn’t…feel less than human. Like a rabid animal, uncontrolled and wild, dangerous to those around him.  
  
He doesn’t feel like a parasite. Because they give him their trust and loyalty and warmth and kindness, but even if he can’t see it, or know for certain what it is, he can realize now that he’s giving them _something_ back.   
  
And he realizes that he doesn’t really want to leave at all. He never did. He just felt like he _had_ to. Like he wasn’t worthy of being a paladin with all these things in his past. And maybe he still isn’t, but…but he doesn’t _want_ to go.   
  
Does he still have a right to make a choice like that? Even if he’s not at fault for those actions?   
  
“I…”  
  
He doesn’t realize his voice his shaking until he speaks. He doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until he hears the gentle tremble of metal on metal, or sees his left hand shivering slightly on the table. But he _does_ feel when the other paladins surround his chair, not crowding him but offering support all the same. He can feel Hunk’s hand on his shoulder, Lance’s nudge at his arm, and Pidge’s and Keith’s more distant presences on either side of him.   
  
And they don’t say anything at all, but he feels stronger for it all the same. It’s almost like he still has a piece of each of their quintessences still with him, even if he knows he’s burned through all their donated energy days ago. He can still _feel_ that closeness, that dedication, that loyalty. Like a memory. Like an echo. Yet, like something still alive, still here, right now, burning in each of them.   
  
“You know…when I said that raw quintessence was full of echos?” Shiro says slowly. He’s still staring at his metal hand on the table, not quite looking at any of them, but it’s not avoidance. Just thoughtful.   
  
He can almost feel the rest of the paladins exchanging looks anyway, before Lance says slowly, “Uh…yeah?”  
  
“Those were just pieces of people. Little fragments that were lost in the whole Galra process. But your quintessences were a lot…sharper. More crystal clear. More alive. Stronger.”   
  
He finally looks up at them all. They’re all giving him confused looks. He offers them a tired smile. “When you all donated quintessence. I could feel it. Feel all of _you_. How you thought. How you saw things. The things most important to you. The things most important to your Lions. I understand all of you a little better now, I think.” He feels closer to them than he ever has before, really, even when forming Voltron. Even now he has a better understanding of Keith’s fiery instinct and determination, Lance’s fluid adaptability and skill with others, Pidge’s lively curiosity and stubbornness, Hunk’s sturdy kindness and protectiveness. And most of all, despite all the differences in the ways their quintessences form, he can recognize their loyalty and their support.   
  
Every single one of them believes in him. It’s…difficult to understand against the backdrop of his own past actions, but even knowing them it’s still there, and he can _feel_ it.   
  
“I don’t know what I was expecting with this,” Shiro continues. “I probably should have known better than to try. I’ve thought the way all of you think, now. None of you would approve. I’ve seen that. All of you…all of you care so _strongly_. All in different ways, all for different reasons, but you’re all so passionate about the things most important to you. It’s just…it’s been confusing to think of myself as one of those things. It doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t _feel_ right. Not up against what I know about myself. But that really doesn’t matter to you, does it? To any of you. I felt it, but I didn’t really _understand_ it. Not until now.”  
  
“ ‘course it doesn’t matter,” Lance says, as if this was obvious. “You’re _Shiro_. You’re part of our weird little space family and a defender of the universe with us and you’re our fearless leader and you’ve gotten us through more crap than I can count. _Obviously_ you’re one of the most important things to us. What else would you be?”  
  
“What the Galra did to you or made you do against your will doesn’t define you,” Keith adds with a low growl. “That’s never going to matter to us.”   
  
“What does matter is what _you_ do,” Pidge adds. “ _Your_ choices. Your _real_ choices. And we know better than to doubt you.”   
  
Hunk doesn’t say anything at all, but his hand on Shiro’s shoulder squeezes gently in agreement. And…it’s almost crazy, but Shiro swears he can _feel_ the warmth and kindness and solidity of Hunk’s golden quintessence in that single reassuring movement. It’s just his imagination, he knows, but that energy is still there and alive in Hunk himself, just under the surface, recognizable in Hunk’s actions and movements and words even if Shiro never sees the swirl of smoky gold again.   
  
And he sees it in the others, too. Lance half drapes over his other shoulder in a standing hug, and he can all but feel the coolness of the blue quintessence, see the energy flowing in Lance’s friendly, reassuring movements and cheerful grin. Keith doesn’t come closer, not crowding, but Shiro can recognize the fire burning inside him, the red quintessence smoldering and ready to aggressively defend, aware of every movement and ready to counter. Pidge pushes Lance aside and burrows into Shiro’s left under his arm for a hug, and he can envision the green quintessence just under the surface, feel that stubbornness and desire to protect her family in her touch. The energy itself is never visible, but he _knows_ them. He knows it’s _there_. He knows what’s most important to them all.  
  
He knows he’s a part of that.  
  
“Yeah,” he says after a moment, wrapping his left arm a little more firmly around Pidge, and shifting slightly in his chair to allow Lance and Hunk closer as well. “Yeah, I think I’m starting to understand that.”   
  
“Good,” Keith says. “Then you’re not going to leave, are you?”  
  
“I…” Shiro hesitates. He doesn’t _want_ to. And he knows now, stronger than ever, that the paladins certainly don’t want him to, either. He can feel that even now in their closeness, the warmth of their embraces and their smiles and their clear, obvious worry for him.   
  
He doesn’t _want_ to go, but he’s not sure he can stay, either. Maybe the things he’s done weren’t his fault, and maybe they’re right. But it’s still difficult to accept that fully, and it still doesn’t feel _right_ , exactly, like he has to be responsible for _some_ of it. Even if what they say is true, they’re still actions he’s taken, and they don’t seem like the actions of a paladin.   
  
He swallows, and lifts his head slowly to stare across the table at Allura, and at Coran standing by her shoulder. He doesn’t imagine the paladins almost instinctively drawing closer around him, like shields. It feels so _familiar_. He can feel their warmth. He can envision what it might look like in the blackness. He can see it in person.   
  
They’ll defend him no matter what. No matter what the verdict is. He’s still not sure what he’s done to earn this kind of loyalty, but it feels…it feels good. It feels safe.   
  
Allura watches him and the paladins for a very long moment before she speaks. “If you truly, willingly desire to leave,” she says slowly, “Then I cannot stop you, even if I can plead against your decision. You are one of five paladins, and we need Voltron. More than that, _I_ believe that you belong here. That you are worthy of being a defender of the universe, and that you fulfill the paladin code honorably. But if your only reason to leave is because you think you are no longer worthy of the title of black paladin…then I think you had best bring your case to the Lion. I do not have the authority to give or take that name.”   
  
Black. Go to Black? Shiro’s eyes widen slightly at the thought. He hasn’t been to see her since his arm has been fixed. It terrifies him, the thought of possibly being rejected for his actions, for letting her be the ultimate judge and jury.   
  
But at the same time…at the same time, he doesn’t want to leave. And he needs to know if he can still stay. Because this _is_ his fight. That _was_ his choice, to fight when there wasn’t a choice at all. He _has_ resisted the Galra with everything he has, even if maybe he wasn’t strong enough to do so fully when he was their prisoner. Even if they _were_ able to trick him. And being a part of team Voltron gives him _meaning._ He doesn’t want to abandon the others, not after feeling their loyalty and trust in him. He doesn’t want to give up the fight, not now. He has to try.  
  
“We can go with you,” Lance says, nudging his arm again. The others nod in agreement, clustering closer. “If you want. Back you up. And if the Black Lion gets too judge-y just tell Keith. He’ll punch her, just like he said.”  
  
“Don’t think I wouldn’t,” Keith grumbles under his breath.  
  
Shiro can’t help but smile at that—weakly, but smile all the same. “I know you would,” he says. “I felt it.” _I’ll fight for you_ , Keith’s quintessence had said. It had really meant it. He can envision that burning red quintessence in the red paladin’s heart even now, see it in his stance and in his eyes.  
  
Shiro continues before anyone can ask questions. “I know that all of you would back me up in a heartbeat. I felt that. I’ve seen that now. And I appreciate it. But this…when I speak to the Black Lion, I need to do it by myself.”   
  
He stands, closing his eyes for a moment. “And I need to do it now. Before I lose any of this.”   
  
“We’ll be waiting,” Allura says confidently. “And for what it’s worth, Shiro, I happen to be a very good judge of character. I don’t believe you have anything to fear.”  
  
Shiro hopes not.

* * *

  
  
When he steps into the Black Lion’s hangar, the first thing he feels from her is _relief,_ followed shortly by _joy-happiness-contentment_. The Black Lion is happy to see him, he gathers. She has been worried because she could not feel him. He had disappeared from her mind’s eye, and then he had not come to see her. He is still weak now—has he been ill? Where has her paladin been?   
  
“I need to…to show you some things,” Shiro tells her slowly. “And I…need to know if I’ve still earned your title.”  
  
He’s not sure, even now. The conviction and trust of his friends has been so _strong,_ but even the journey from the dining room to the hangar has left him with a few new growing doubts. He clings to the memories of his friends’ loyalties, their words, their insistence that he is not at fault for the things he’d been forced to do against his will, no matter how badly he feels he must bear the responsibilities for those actions.  
  
But the Black Lion will end this, one way or another. She alone can give him the title of paladin, and she alone can decide if he is still truly worthy of it. If his actions were those of a knight, or those of a parasite.   
  
She senses his confusion and his hurt and his unease, and her impressions and thoughts grow silent and solemn. She waits. And he takes a deep breath, and gives her all his new memories—everything from the past few weeks, everything he has recently recovered. He gives them all, and he waits.  
  
He doesn’t wait long. Within moments he feels a cascade of images and thoughts and voices—his own memories of Allura’s and Coran’s words of assurance and insistence from just moments ago, the words of the paladins as they argued in his defense, the feeling of each of their quintessences as they protected him. Overlaying it all is a strong feeling of confidence and pride and contentment. _No fault_ , the feelings and voices and images all tied together seem to say. _Never any fault. You may be tired, you may hurt, you may struggle, but you are not at fault. You fought to resist. You fought to protect. The hurt you cause hurts you in turn. You are a paladin. You are_ my paladin _, the black paladin. Nothing I have seen will tear this title from you. You are worthy._   
  
Shiro has never felt such _relief_ before. He feels stunned. And then he feels _home,_ because he’ll remain, and he has purpose, and he hasn’t broken everything he’s supposed to stand for. That he _wants_ to stand for. She’s seen into his soul and judged him worthy. He has nothing left to argue against but himself.   
  
And even that, in time, may pass.   
  
The Black Lion’s massive metal head lowers, as she crouches down on all fours, until her huge head rests just in front of him. And he feels from her, _Let us fly, paladin. Soar through the sky and the stars and know freedom. Be yourself once again. Live, truly._  
  
And he smiles, for the first time in a long while—a real, full smile. Maybe it might take him a while to fully accept what the others have said—that he’s not completely at fault, that he’d done nothing wrong, that he’d fought his hardest and that was all that could be asked for. That he doesn’t have to bear the responsibility of _all_ of this. That he’s not a monster just for the crime of living. But they’ve all accepted him, _all_ of them. They know what he’s done and have found him worthy anyway. They know who he is, in the end.  
  
And as he settles into the pilot’s seat and the Black Lion soars into the air and roars, as he feels her contentment and the first rush of joy and knows the thrill of flight again and knows _this_ , not that battle rush, is what it really means to _live_ —Shiro thinks that maybe, just maybe, everything will be alright after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me to the end, all! I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope this fic helped make the lead-up to S2 a little more bearable.
> 
> (And, since I don't believe anyone mentioned this in the comments—Haggar was only in this fic once. Have fun with that one!) 
> 
> I have one more (unrelated) piece to share tomorrow, and then we'll see what the new season brings :)


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